Chicxulub Crater
by lamentomori
Summary: "No matter how careful you are, sometimes things fall apart, they break and there is nothing you can do to fix them." A tale of two people stumbling through the shards of what was (and may be again) a relationship. Warnings: Sequel to Tail of a Comet (I'd recommend reading it first) M for Slash (Colt/Punk), smut, profanity
1. Alone and Unaware

2nd Person Colt POV Warnings: Slash, profanity

* * *

You're busy; you're always busy these days. When you first signed with them, you had hoped you would get to see him more often than when you were out in the Indys. You got to see him whenever he was at OVW for TV tapings but when they moved their developmental program to Florida and you moved, he was never called down there. He was busy too, wrestling who knows where with ECW; he seemed to be having a good enough time with Heyman, though. A weird pairing, you thought but listening to him talk about Heyman, it was clear that he respects the man, values his opinion and Heyman seemed to be behind him. In OVW, Heyman pushed him, kept him at the forefront of the show, which is where Punk likes to be, for all his claims of humility, it's where he believes he should be. Now, Heyman is gone and he avoids talking work as much as possible. You're sure he's quickly getting frustrated with his position, Punk after all was the _man_ in ROH and with Heyman's backing, he was essentially in OVW too.

When you first told him they were changing your name, he laughed at you. "Scotty Goldman versus CM Punk doesn't have quite the same ring." He told you and you agree, you couldn't agree more if you're honest. Scotty Goldman is a jobber and he's not even a jobber in the vein of The Brooklyn Brawler, he's just a plain old jobbing jobber. He asked you why they were bothering and you didn't have a good answer. You have theories on the name changing though, theories that are unkind to the higher-ups and to him. It was their decision to let him keep CM Punk, it's not his fault that by not changing his name it brought the entire ROH smark fan-base stomping over to see what the big leagues would do with their golden boy. Still it doesn't seem quite fair that he gets to be himself whilst you're Scotty.

You had the weekend off, heading home to Chicago for a few days, even if it was going to be freezing cold there, was all you wanted to do. You sent him a message asking if he'd be able to get home for the weekend.

_Yup! I've got some news! - Punkers 18:56_

Exclamation marks and a yup from Punk filled you with excitement, a large part of you hoped he was going to tell you when you were getting out of developmental. You already know how to hip toss a guy and you sure as hell know how to apply a headlock. You have an even greater hope that he's somehow managed to convince them that Scotty Goldman is a fucking stupid name and you can go back to being Colt Cabana, though you doubt that even Punkers, silver tongue and all, would be able to convince them of that.

When you get back home, the TV's on and he's asleep on the sofa, wrapped up in the ugly blanket you bought a while back when the heating in your place was broken and you didn't have the money to get it fixed for a few weeks. The ugly blanket has been sitting folded up on the armchair since you got the money to fix the heating. He looks peaceful, all curled up, fast asleep. You haven't the heart to wake him so you click the TV off and sit beside him, gently guide him over to you, rearranging the way you're both pressed together awkwardly and carefully so that you're lying down, his head on your chest, your arms around him, stroking his back. You missed this, missed holding him, missed the warmth of his body, the smoothness of his skin, the smell of his hair. You're sure his exclamation mark deserving news can wait till you wake up from the nap you feel encroaching.

"Morning." You wake to find him sitting on the table, a cup of coffee in his hands, another steaming away beside him.

"Hey." You take the other cup and sip at it carefully, you feel groggy and still half-asleep, spending the night on the sofa wasn't a good idea, you think. "So this exciting news is?" He grins at you, the ridiculous something awesome has happened grin.

"I'm working Wrestlemania again." You nod, he worked it last year, he lost but he was there, hell, he was there for XXII, sure, it was as an extra but he was there. You've been part of Wrestlemania too, granted it was when you were sixteen and all you did was punch Hawk but you were there and very much a part of it. "In the ladder match again." You nod again; you have a feeling you know where this is going. "They want me to win!" He crows with delight, you're almost certain you've never seen him this excited.

"The money in the bank thing?" You ask try as you might to sound happy for him, his excitement isn't quite rubbing off on you. You're happy for him but you're tired and a tiny bit disappointed.

"Yup!" He doesn't seem to notice your lack of enthusiasm or is ignoring it. You set your cup down and take his from him, pull him to your lap and kiss him thoroughly; you can probably hide your selfish disappointment that way.

"Bout time, Punkers." You tell him, forcing a huge grin on to your face.

"I know!"

He was insatiable all weekend, every second he was awake, he was wrapped around you, kissing, licking, biting, sucking. You even had sex in places that weren't your bed. The shower and the sofa are tied as places you're sure you're not letting anyone else ever use again; just looking at them summons images of him to your mind, his body writhing in pleasure at your actions, his face flushed with arousal, your smile on his lips. When he left for Raw it was with a soft, lazy smile and a slight limp, you felt a little guilty but you'd both been apart for so long and you can never help but accommodate his requests and he had made so very many of them over those two days.

The next time you managed to be in the same place at the same time, for any length of time, was to watch your debut on Smackdown. Your back against the headboard, his head in your lap, both of you tangled and sprawled over the bed in some motel, one thing you'll say for the WWE, even jobbers get good rooms. The World Heavy Weight title, the Big Gold belt, is sitting on the dresser, you've been carefully not looking at it, there's no way Scotty is getting any gold, man. He's laughing so hard at your loss, the _I'm in a box_ had him laughing more than you'd seen in years, whilst you should probably be happy you've made him happy, it fills you with irrational irritation.

"It's not that funny." You tell him, shoving his head from your lap, causing him to give you an annoyed glare, you draw your legs up to your chest and wrap your arms around them.

"I thought it was supposed to be funny." He's wiping tears from his eyes. You scowl at him.

"You're an asshole." You tell him, you know you sound more annoyed than you should, it was supposed to be funny but you wanted him to, well you aren't really sure what you wanted him to do but laugh at you, probably wasn't it.

"Yeah but you love me." He sounds unreasonably smug. You scowl at him. "You love me, right?" A tiny hint of concern enters his voice if you called him on it, he'd deny it but there is an undertone of worry there. That it's there at all makes you happy, sad and annoyed, to think that he'd still doubt you, your feelings, after all this time together. You cuff the back of his head gently.

"Despite the fact you're an asshole, yes." You watch his smirk soften into your smile and straighten your legs, pulling him to you. "You're an asshole but you're my asshole, Punkers." You kiss him softly. "I love you, asshole." You nuzzle his neck and press a soft kiss to his pulse.

"Good." He pulls away from you. "I love you, too. Now, what do you wanna do to celebrate your debut?" It surprises you how easily he returns the sentiment. It also surprises you how long it's been since you've told him you loved him. When he was in OVW, you texted him a new lemon every day to make sure he remembered you loved him but once he moved up to ECW, once you got offered a contract, once you started working developmental, you were busy. You were always busy, too busy to text him, too busy to spend your time carving lemons and it would have been too difficult to explain to the people you roomed with what you were doing. You think this is probably the first time in months either of you have said I love you. You pull him back to you and rub your noses together.

"You _know_ I love you, Punkers." You place a soft kiss to his lips. "I love you so fucking much." Another Eskimo kiss. He smiles but you catch a hint of relief in his eyes. "I've a match tomorrow." You get off the bed and start undressing, he follows your lead. "So how do I wanna celebrate?" You smile at him and pull the covers back on the bed and lay down flat on your back. "I want to hold you, c'mere." You stretch your arms out to him, he looks at you confusion clouding his expression. When was the last time you just held him, didn't have sex as soon as you were alone for more than ten minutes? You think it was probably that night back in Chicago when you slept on the sofa. He settles in your arms soon enough, his head on your chest. "I miss you." You tell him, he laughs.

"Of course you miss me, I'd miss me too." The phrase sounds oddly familiar but you put it out of your mind and instead concentrate on stroking his dyed black hair, you miss the peroxide blond but he seems to be okay with the black. "You know you can call me any time, right Colt?" His voice sounds slightly off. "It's not like I sleep all that much and I miss you too, fucker." You feel something in your chest clench at his words, as though you hadn't expected him to miss you. You can't help but wonder if he misses you, why doesn't he just call you, then neither of you would miss the other. He presses a soft kiss to your chest, wraps his arms around you in an awkward and slightly uncomfortable hug. "I'm proud of you." He says and the residual irritation from earlier vanishes, like it had never been there in the first place. "I tried to persuade them that letting you keep your name was a good idea, that letting us team together was a better one but Creative are all fucking assholes." He speaks softly, his lips over your heart, brushing the skin of your chest occasionally. "Wouldn't know a good fucking idea if it choked them the fuck out." You laugh at him.

"They'd be unconscious, it's understandable." You tilt his chin, getting him to look at you. "Thanks for trying, Punkers." You brush noses with him again.

"Didn't do any good though did it?" He snaps, the look in his eyes saying _I'm sorry, I tried but I wasn't good enough_. You kiss him, stroking his hair back from his face.

"You tried, that's more than enough for me, Punkers." He looks dubious of your statement but as you keep stroking his hair, he relents and is soon smiling your smile once more. He tucks his head under your chin and you squeeze him tightly. "Move your arms, you're all pointy." You tell him, making him laugh and wriggle his arms out from under your body, to tuck his hands under his chin as he usually does when he sleeps.

"G'night Colt. Love you." You hear his voice so very soft in the quiet of the room, oncoming sleep always softening his more jagged edges.

"Good night, Punkers." You say as you keep stroking him, his hair, his back, over his shoulder, anywhere in easy reach. "Love you too." You fall asleep to the sound of his breathing for the first time in so very long, making a promise to yourself to buy some lemons at the nearest grocery store, as soon as you aren't so busy.

* * *

So this is the first chapter of the sequel to Tail of a Comet. (If you've not read it, I'd recommend taking a look, especially if you got all the way down to the author notes at the bottom, it'll explain the more odd comments in the story but mostly the lemons, if I'm honest...)

The original title of this sequel was _At the Soundless Dawn _but after my insane Art sophomores seriously got into a debate about how the World is going to end and told me the name of the impact crater for the spacerock that killed the dinosaurs and that it was probably a comet and not a meteor that caused their extinction, I couldn't resist calling it _Chicxulub Crater._ It remains soundtracked by _At the Soundless Dawn_ by the incredible _Red Sparowes_. (I listen to pretentious post-rock, I am not ashamed.) We'll be working to the same formula as Comet only difference is that all of the Colt chapters will be named after the tracks on the album, Punk likes his wrestling terms too much to part with them. Timeline is looking to be late 2000's.

Anyway! Please review if you're reading! (I'm actually getting more busy, exam and pointless English speaking contest time is rapidly approaching so writing might be sidelined, meaning I might only update every 3 days, devastating for you all I'm sure.) Reviews are to my writing muses, what a block of cheddar is to China, something they both sorely need.


	2. Paper Champion

Punk chapter: 1st person pov Warnings: Profanity, slash

* * *

The problem with comets is they eventually have to hit something or they burn away into nothingness. It's like when I arrived here, it was with all the hype of Ring of Honor behind me, the undersized Internet darling and like a comet, I made my impact crater. Alls I have to do now is get out of that fucking hole, tooth and nail, scraping and clawing, I'll clamber out and I'll fucking show them that I am worth every fucking penny they pay me.

OVW had been an experience, I learnt so much there. I'm sure I'm the only one of the boys in the back who could in a pinch actually fucking produce the show. Paul, he was good to me, better to me than anyone else in this fucking company has been. My debut at ECW was an incredible moment, no pun intended Justin, all those people chanting my name on national fucking television but now with Paul gone, I know that any chance I had has dwindled, I can see it being ripped from me, no matter how hard I try to cling to it. CM Punk doesn't fit their mould of what a main event guy should look like. CM Punk is a mid-card prospect and if he isn't careful, he's going to be future endeavoured. I'm trying to enjoy everything I can, ticking off every milestone, all the while know that the sword of Damocles hangs over me. They couldn't make it more clear to me that they don't think I have what it takes but fuck them, I do and I will fucking prove it, as soon as I get the ball, I'm knocking it out of the fucking park.

Paul is the only reason I wasn't gifted a new gimmick, a new name like Colt, he'll never be Scotty fucking Goldman. Of all the fucking stupid shit to pull, to no let Colt be Colt, to keep the Second City Saints apart, fucking stupid. I tried to convince them that a change wasn't really necessary for Colt but _"We understand that you two did good business in the Indys, Phil. You sold out high school gym and armouries but this is the WWE. We're Sports Entertainment, not Pro-Wrestling."_ was what they told me. Now I remember when this was a fucking wrestling company, I remember when I would watch WWF and think this is what I want to do, sure it was always a bit more flashy than ROH but there should be a place for, you know, _wrestling _in a wrestling company. Fucking sports entertainment, the fuck is that anyways. A made up phrase to appease sponsors, to get away from the roided up image of the Hogans and Ultimate Warriors of the 80's. Well McMahon made his own bed there, no reason us _wrestlers_ should have to lie in it with him.

Colt, he's busy, I get that and I am not some desperate woman who's waiting for him to call but it can be days, weeks before he texts me. When I was in OVW every single fucking day, I'd get a text; every day he told me, he loved me. I honestly don't remember the last time he said it to me, I sure as hell don't remember the last time he sent me one of those fucking lemons.

You ever think that maybe, Mr Punk you should tell him that you love him first?

I _could_ tell him. I _did_ tell him and got nothing back for three days.

_Hey, how you doing? I think I'm going nuts, the Office hate me. I miss you, love you too. - Punker_s _- Sent 06:11_

_Hey! Im so the best at drinking beer here punkers! Youd be so disappointed in me! ;) - Cabanarama DingDong 00:58_

Three days of nothing and then a random drunken text, no return of the sentiment, so why bother?

Why indeed. Maybe he just plain doesn't love you any more, Mr Punk, you are after all, an asshole.

He's busy.

Too busy for you? Too busy to tell his _partner_ that he loves him?

_Hey, Punkers. I've the weekend off. You free to come home? - Cabanarama DingDong 18:53_

_Yup! I've got some news! - sent 18:56_

And I do. I got the call at five; they want me to win Money in the Bank. It _was_ supposed to be Jeff Hardy's win but if you will get yourself caught breaking Wellness policy, your push will go to someone else and that someone else is me. Ha, you don't need to worry about Mr Straightedge getting suspended for filling himself with shit. Jeff's an okay guy; he just makes the same poor choices so many people here do. They make these fucking idiotic choices just to get through their lives, it's sad. Why do this to yourself? Why squander your opportunities like that? Although I'm sure I could start charging guys for my piss, I'd make a killing, should probably ask Cabana for advice on that, King of gimmicks that he is.

It's strange to be here, in Colt's apartment and for the place not to smell of lemons. Every time we'd be here before, it was all lemon fresh, now it just smells like a place that isn't used enough, somewhere that just waiting for its people to get back. For all it's having been repaired the heating still isn't great, makes me glad for the ugly blanket. I've happy memories of this fucking thing, like the time we took it to the fucking elbow of nowhere and had this ridiculous fucking picnic on it, stone cold take away pizza and warm Pepsi, the first time we made love somewhere not a bed, the relief that no other fucker caught us I had was unbelievable.

You embarrassed to be with him, Mr Punk?

I'm embarrassed by the thought of being caught fucking halfway up a mountain, we should have gone all the way to the top to fuck, lazy fat asses, we are. Doesn't look like he's getting here anytime soon, I guess it's you and me, ugly blanket, watching TV till he gets home.

Waking up in his arms is something I miss more than I can say, there's something special about waking up feeling him holding me, his arms wrapped around me, squeezing me tight, his breathe in my hair, his snores rumbling under my ear. I miss this so fucking much, another reason I want us back together, an entirely selfish reason, is so I can have this every morning.

"Morning." Coffee and creepily watching Colt sleep, there are times I weird myself out but at least he's awake now.

"Hey, so this exciting news is?" Poor sleepy old Cabana, take your coffee and to least try to sound like you're excited and happy for me, fucker.

"I'm working Wrestlemania again, in the ladder match again. They want me to win!" Is that not fucking amazing! They're gonna give me a Championship Title! Stop looking so depressed, come on, be happy for me, fucker!

"The money in the bank thing?" You sound so tired, Cabana. I know you're still stuck down there, I'm trying to get you called up but at least pretend to be happy for me, fucker.

"Yup!" Stop stealing my coffee, fucker, you've got your own. Oh.

"Bout time, Punkers." I have missed the way you kiss me, Colt, now kiss me again.

"I know!" You look so fucking sad, so fucking disappointed, so fucking tired, so fucking much like me. If you can't be happy for me, fucker, if my success doesn't make you happy, Colt, the very least I can make your body feel good. Tag! You better fear my fucking rest holds, Life, you bitch.

All weekend fucking, I hope your cock falls off Cabana but no matter how much I'm limping, at least when I left him he was happy, I left him smiling. See that Life, Second City Saints - 2, you - 0.

I won the World Heavyweight Title on June Twenty-Third. I am the champion. I hold the belt of Ric Flair. I hold the belt of Dusty Rhodes. I am a mid-card guy holding the Championship Title. I am a Champion completely lost in the shuffle. I may as well be holding the Women's Championship for all the respect I get. The card should be built around your Titles, the Championship should be the focal point of your company, I don't buy this some people are more important that the Title bullshit, there should be nothing more important than that; otherwise what's the point in it. A title has the worth the company gives it, in ROH, the Championship belt was _the_ goal, it had more worth than any one wrestler did but right now, I'm carrying a title that is worthless. I know the Office think that I'm the one who's made it worthless but when you book your champion to look weak, it's not his fault if he looks weak.

I manage to get to be with him to watch his debut, at least _I'm in a box_ was funny.

"It's not that funny."

"I thought it was supposed to be funny"

"You're an asshole."

"Yeah but you love me." You do love me, right Colt; tell me that all this time you've not said it doesn't mean you've changed your mind. "You love me, right?" Oww, don't hit me fucker, domestic abuse much, smacking your partner is definitely illegal, Cabana.

"Despite the fact you're an asshole, yes. You're an asshole but you're my asshole, Punkers. I love you, asshole."

"Good. I love you, too." So maybe I am a little feminine at times but even the manliest of macho men need to be reminded that they're loved and he does love me, right, because he said so. "Now, what do you wanna do to celebrate your debut?" My money is on fuck Punk, it's all we seem to do these days. Don't see each other for months, meet up, have sex, go back to work, lather, rinse, repeat.

"You _know_ I love you, Punkers. I love you so fucking much." See Life, he loves me, he just said so, repeatedly, this worrying thing is ridiculous, I need to stop. "I've a match tomorrow." Off come the clothes so sex it is then. "So how do I wanna celebrate? I want to hold you, c'mere." _Hold_ me? Why? Every night we've managed to be together you've wanted to have sex, why not tonight? "I miss you."

"Of course you miss me, I'd miss me too." I miss you too but you're busy, I get it, I'm busy too. "You know you can call me any time, right Colt? It's not like I sleep all that much and I miss you too, fucker." Just call me, text me, fuck write me a letter, something, anything, Cabana, something other than how good you are at getting wasted. Talk to me, don't just tell me you miss me and do nothing about it. I miss you; I miss you so much more than you know.

Mr Punk, maybe he does know and he just doesn't care.

He said he missed me too, first even.

He's not done anything about it though, has he?

Shut up Life, I'm not talking to you right now; he loves me, he misses me, he's said so, repeatedly.

"I'm proud of you. I tried to persuade them that letting you keep your name was a good idea, that letting us team together was a better one but Creative are all fucking assholes. Wouldn't know a good fucking idea if it choked them the fuck out." I am so proud of you, Colt; I know being here, in the WWE is your dream. Sure, it's not an auspicious start but neither was mine, it'll get better; I know it will, you're too good to be stuck as a jobber.

"They'd be unconscious, it's understandable. Thanks for trying, Punkers."

"Didn't do any good though did it?" It doesn't matter how much I try Colt, I'm slowly beginning to realise, I try and I try and still I don't seem to be able to climb out of this crater I've made, I'm worried you'll get dragged down by association, Colt. I'm even more worried that you'll let me go to avoid getting dragged down too.

"You tried, that's more than enough for me, Punkers. Move your arms, you're all pointy." Fuck, I miss when you hold me like this; I miss you stroking my hair.

I think you should miss being less of a woman, Mr Punk.

Shut up.

"G'night Colt. Love you."

"Good night, Punkers. Love you too." Sometimes, I think I forget that, Colt, don't let me forget it for too long, Cabana, don't you go forgetting it either, fucker.

* * *

**littleone1389**: I'm pretty sure Punk is off here, but I look forward to your thoughts on him.

**alizabethianrose**: Not spoiling of items yet! LoL

**bitteralisa**: Slower updates do mean you'll miss less what with the lappy troubles! LoL

**InYourHonour & agd888**: Glad you're both back, hopefully you'll enjoy where we're going.

So first Punk chapter and I am more than a little concerned that he sounds off, it was a surprisingly difficult task getting this written. Please let me know what you think.

_**Reviews would be nice. :3 **_

I have become one of those people who beg for reviews... Alas and woe is me but they do keep me motivated and at this rate China will steal all my time and leave me none for writing, reviews keep this a priority for me so if you'd like more, do say so, if not well don't, I guess.


	3. The Air Filled with a Reddish Glow

2nd Person Colt POV Warnings: Slash, smut, profanity

* * *

Dreams, you suppose, are something you always have to wake up from, they always end when morning comes. It was your dream to be here, the WWE was the _dream_ from day one, you started playing football because Good Old JR said lots of wrestlers played football in college, you did everything you could to be here and yet here you are and you, you don't hate it, exactly but it's not what you wanted it to be. You didn't think you'd be spending your time in catering. You didn't think you'd be in pointless matches on the D-list show. You didn't think you'd be left so very far behind Punk. You've always trailed in his wake, that's how people always see it, never mind that in the early days it was you doing the legwork, you making the connections, you getting him the jobs and him stealing the spots. It's not Punk's fault. You're sure you've told yourself this a thousand times, cream rises to the top. Punk, he's clearly cream and right now, you're fairly certain you're curds, maybe whey, you're not entirely sure but whatever you are in the WWE's eye's it's not cream.

You don't think you're jealous, he sure as hell never sounds happy when he talks about work, he sounds frustrated, annoyed perhaps but not happy. There's nothing to be jealous of in the way they treat Punk, he might have held the Big Gold Belt but it meant nothing, that's obvious in the way they took it from him so unceremoniously. You remember the _rage_ in his voice when he called to tell you. You're not certain you've never heard him as angry as he sounded then. You were too far away to be able to console him in any meaningful way and by the time you were together again, he had handled it somehow or at least he had dampened his fury to more manageable levels. He didn't mention it and you didn't ask. So no, you're not jealous. You're bitter; you think that's a better fit for how you feel. You're bitter that the company handed you your dream and have managed to make it nothing but a tarnished parody of everything you've worked for, you're bitter that they've managed to kill so much of the love for wrestling Punk has, you're bitter that they've managed to keep you both so far apart. At this moment, you think that is the worst thing they've managed to do. You'd like to have him closer to you more often, you'd like to have him more available to you, you'd like to bitch and whine and complain about how they've saddled you with this shitty shtick but he's busy so you don't call. You don't want to compound his problems with yours, he'd only complain to the higher-ups on your behalf and he gets enough heat without your help.

"I'm IC Champ. Yay." You'd been dozing on the sofa, using the ugly blanket as a pillow, when he gets home. He drops his bag, kicks off his shoes and kneels on the floor in front of you, his face close to yours. "You sleeping?" You shake your head.

"You're too noisy to sleep through, Punkers." You cup his cheek, stroking the stubble there.

"Says the man who snores so loudly he wakes himself up." He rubs his cheek against your hand. "How's Smackdown?"

"No idea, ask me about Superstars instead." You think a hint of the horrid well of bitterness inside you seeps into your tone; he looks at you, his eyes filled with concern. "It could be worse." You try to sounds cheerful, you know you fail when he stands and offers you his hand.

"Come on, let's go." You let him haul you to your feet and watch as he shoves his feet back into the sneakers he'd taken off moments ago.

"Where?" You take your shoes from him and put them on. He's bundled up in his jacket by the time you've straightened from tying your laces.

"Dunno, out?" He grabs your wrist and pulls you out of the apartment.

You get back home late, you spent hours at some Mom'n'Pop pizza place down the street together. You didn't talk about anything important, trivial nonsense, fantasy booking, the tangled love lives of friends, it felt comfortable, it felt normal. This is what you needed, you think. You would be able to handle being Scotty fucking Goldman for all eternity if you could spend every night with him like this.

As soon you're in the door, shoes and jackets off, he's dragging you to the bathroom, shedding clothes along the way. You watch as he turns the shower on and stands under the spray. He doesn't look quite right you think. Your Punk is a slender, pointy, angular, weasley little thing. This man in your shower is too big, too solid; the weight he's decided he needs to make it in the Land of Giants doesn't quite suit him and whilst the weight may not suit him, he's still so beautiful, you think, as the water trails over his skin, his fake tan making it look warm and soft. "C'mere." He reaches his hand out to you and you strip quickly, accepting his invitation. He grins at you and turns you around, begins washing your back, washing you with firm, efficient strokes. He washes you from head to toe, cleans himself with brutal efficiency and shuts the water off. When you both get out, he wraps one of the ridiculously big towels your mother bought you around you both and stands pressed against your back. He presses several small kisses to your shoulders. You feel yourself relaxing in his arms, it's rare that he holds you like this, you wonder if it means he's decided he wants to top for a change, you aren't sure you'd welcome that change, being inside of him is beyond words but if he wants to fuck you, you know you won't deny him. "Bed. Let's go, Cabana." He squeezes you and tries to prompt you into action by shuffling around behind you. You turn in his arms and kiss him.

"You're ridiculous." You tell him once you've parted from his lips because this is ridiculous, penguin shuffling to bed, wrapped up in a towel is utterly ridiculous. He looks mildly offended.

"I am _trying_ to be romantic, fucker." You smile at him and brush your nose over his.

"Of course, nothing says romance like pizza and a shower." You chuckle and kiss him again. "So bed?" He sniffs in a haughty manner and steps away from you, offering you his hand again. You aren't sure why he seems so keen to touch you tonight, so needy of physical contact with you. He's not usually so _clingy_. The towel is abandoned in the short walk to your bedroom, once there he flops on the bed, lies propped up on his elbows watching you.

"So how'd you want me?" He asks as your smile makes its first appearance of the night. How do you want him? It's a much more difficult question than he realises, you think. You grab the lube from your dresser and go to him, settle between his legs and kiss him softly.

"Any way, anything I want?" You smooth his hair back from his face. He nods.

"Anything you want, Colt." You sit up; pull him to sit up with you.

"Kneel on the floor for me." You keep your voice soft, anything you want and you've wanted this for so very long. He settles on the floor, his legs tucked under himself. You position yourself so that he's between your spread legs. You grab the lube and pour a little into your hand, using it to make jerking yourself to hardness easier, your other hand wraps in his hair, holding his head still and close to your growing erection. You keep jacking after you're hard; the tip of your cock brushing his thin lips, his tongue pokes out and laps at your head, tasting the pre-cum beading there. You swipe his lips with your cock head, leaving a shiny trail of pre-cum over them that he licks away swiftly. You let him suckle on the head for a while; watch him treat the head of your cock like a lollipop. Using the hand still wrapped in his hair, you guide him forward, working more of your cock into his throat. You keep a slow pace, guiding him forward, letting him move back when he's ready, each time he's taking you deeper and deeper into his throat, until finally you're as deep as you can go. Your balls brush against his chin, you feel his throat working around you as you keep him from pulling back with the hand in his hair. He looks up at you, his eyes hazy and slightly panicked. You loosen your hold on his hair and let him work you at his pace, he sets it slower than usual, taking you deeper than he normally would, taking you all the way into his throat several more times, as though even he is pleased with this new trick. As you get closer, you tighten you hand in his hair again.

"Faster." You manage between gasping moans, he complies and bobs his head faster, the more familiar quick and shallow blowjob, unlike normal his hands stay away, a part of you is disappointed that you don't get to feel his long fingers caressing your balls but it feels good all the same. Just before you come, you leave his mouth entirely and take your cock in your hand, stroking it quickly. You watch his eyes carefully, he hasn't broken your gaze since he first held it, since your balls were resting against his chin, you groan at that thought, your cock so deep inside of his tight wet throat, how far down his pretty neck you must have been. When you come, you aim for his thin lips, swollen and red and wearing your smile. He moves to wipe your cum off his face with his hand and you suddenly don't want him taking it away, at this moment he is yours even more than when he sits around in your clothes, at this moment in time, he is undeniably marked as yours and the thought makes your heart swell. "Wait, wait." You pant, still feeling the effects of your orgasm. You want to memorise his face like this, your cum over his screwed up left eye, a dash over his nose but most of it over his lips, over your smile. There's no conveniently placed cloth to let you wipe his face clean so you place a kiss to his forehead, one of the places on his face where your cum isn't present, you've no desire to taste your own release. "Thanks, Punkers." He nods and stands, heads to the bathroom, you hear the faucet being turned on, the sounds of him washing his face. "You want me to take of you, Punkers?" You ask him, your voice pitched so he can hear it in the other room. When he comes back, it's with a sheepish grin that you're more used to seeing on your own face.

"No need." He says, pulling the covers on the bed back. You get in and pull him to you, tuck him into his spot, his head under your chin.

"Thank you, Punkers, I needed that." You stroke his hair, feeling boneless and relaxed. He chuckles softly and squirms a little, making himself more comfortable.

"Just leave any tips on the table by the door." He mutters, you press a kiss to his hair.

"Don't eat yellow snow." His soft bark of laughter is pleasantly warm over your skin.

"Invaluable advice, Colt. G'night." You kiss his hair again.

"I give good tips. Good night, Punkers." As you drift off to sleep, you feel his breath over your neck as though he was talking, but you can't hear him so you can't quite be sure.

You wake to find him repacking his bag for the road again.

"Hurry up, fucker. You'll be late." You watch him throw everything into the bag, in some crazy order that only makes sense to him. He leans over you and kisses you softly, pulling away before you can reach for him and deepen the kiss. "Love you!" He shouts as he leaves the apartment. It's then you realise that you never once told him you loved him all night, that the words never once occurred to you.

You're shaking when you hang up the phone._ "Best of luck in your future endeavours, Mr Colton."_ Luck, you laugh, luck is for losers. Your hands won't stop shaking; you make a cup of coffee and watch them shake. It's time to wake up, Scott, the dream, it's over, you tell youself. Your cell rings from where you dropped it on the carpet, you stoop down, picking it up to look at the screen.

_Incoming Call_

_Punkers_

_Accept Reject_

You mute your cell, you watch it ring out and trip to voicemail. You can't talk to him yet.

_Incoming Call_

_Punkers_

_Accept Reject_

You watch this call trip to voicemail.

_Answer your phone, Colt! - Punkers 14:56_

_Fucking pick up the phone, Cabana! - Punkers 14:59_

_Scott, are you okay? - Punkers 15:06_

_Scott, I'm worried, let me know you're okay, please. I love you. - Punkers 16:04_

_Incoming Call_

_Punkers_

_Accept Reject_

You let it ring out, sending him to voicemail again.

_Incoming Call_

_Mom_

_Accept Reject_

You answer your mother. She is as supportive as ever, tells you to keep your chin up, mentions your wrestling friend Punk has called the house asking if you're there, asks if she should tell him to call your cell. You tell her you'll call him, you tell her you're okay, that you'll be fine, that she doesn't need to worry.

You have more missed calls from him, more texts. You don't want to talk to him. You can't talk to him. You've nothing to say that won't be bitter and cruel.

You ignore your phone for another hour before making a call.

* * *

**littleone1389**: I maintain that Punk is a little off but we're trying to beat him back on track for the next chapter! Good old Life, I think I am overly fond of Life as a plot devise.

**alizabethianrose**: No lemony texts but a short lemon in the middle though, if that makes up for anything.:)

**bitteralisa**: Over-thinking, over-analysing and not talking are rather the hallmarks of my Punk I fear... I agree with Life too... We've seen the last of girly!Punk, I hope but chapter 4 isn't written yet.

**agd888**: Ha, possibly... maybe grab some tissues for later. ;)

Chapter four will be up as soon as I can manage and as soon as I am satisfied that Punk sounds like a grown-ass man and not some prattling teenager. Time is very much a premium at the moment for me. If you'd like more, more quickly, do say so, if not, well don't, I guess. In other words:

_**Reviews, those would be nice. :3**_


	4. Pinkslip on a Pole

Punk chapter: 1st person pov Warnings: Profanity, slash.

* * *

Well, wasn't that an interesting conversation to overhear, Mr Punk.

Released. Fuck. When? Fucking Johnny Ace, dates, motherfucker, give me a date.

"Mr Brooks? Mr Brooks, excuse me." Runners from Creative, the only people in this whole fucking place that show me any respect, how I fucking hate them. "Your script for the night, Mr Brooks."

"Yeah, thanks." And in the recycling box, you go. Fucking Johnny Ace and his being unspecific, fucking asshole.

"Phil!"

"Mr Laurinaitis." What do you want, asshole?

"You must be excited, finally getting another title run. Must be encouraging, for someone in your position."

"It's an honour to be given the IC title." Yeah it's great, asshole. I wonder how long it'll be before Creative decides to give it to a _real_ champion and what the fuck do you mean in my position? Motherfucking asshole, just fuck off if you aren't going to be useful.

"Well, I'll take my leave. Good luck out there, Phil."

"Thank you, sir." Eat shit and die, fucking asshole.

Well, that's nice isn't it, Mr Punk, the Vice President of Talent Relations wishing you luck, at least it wasn't in your future endeavours, yet.

Fuck you, Life.

"I'm IC Champ. Yay. You sleeping?" Wakey-wakey, fucker.

"You're too noisy to sleep through, Punkers." Poor sleepy Colt, you're spending a lot of time asleep, lately, fucker.

"Says the man who snores so loudly he wakes himself up. How's Smackdown?"

"No idea, ask me about Superstars instead." Oh shit, it's gonna be soon isn't it. "It could be worse."

"Come on, let's go."

"Where?"

"Dunno, out?" Anywhere but here. You need something fun so you're less fucking miserable looking.

Are you really not going to mention this to him, Mr Punk?

What do I say, bitch? Hey, Colt, guess what! I overheard Johnny Ace talking about firing you; yeah don't have any dates but heads up, buddy. Yeah, fuck that, I'll tell him when I have something more concrete. Tonight, we'll be all couplely, dinner, shower, go home, make love, it'll be all fucking sweet and lovely and when I have more info, I'll let him know. _So_ until then, shut the fuck up about it.

Sweet and lovely, I was not aware this meant getting a faceful of cum, Mr Punk.

Shut up.

I'm sure he didn't mean for it to be quite so very humiliating. It's just him marking his territory, right, like a dog pissing on a fire hydrant. This, clearly, means he loves you lots and lots, Mr Punk.

"You want me to take of you, Punkers?"

Ah, of course, he wants to return the favour, well it's not like you really enjoyed it so -

"No need." Shut up, Life.

"Thank you, Punkers, I needed that."

Needed to remind you that you're _his_ fire hydrant, Mr Punk.

"Just leave any tips on the table by the door."

And jokes about being a whore, feeling a little self-deprecating today, Mr Punk. This might be a good opportunity to mention what you overheard.

Not yet, I don't know enough, it'll only worry him. He's happy right now, just leave it, Life.

"Don't eat yellow snow."

"Invaluable advice, Colt. G'night."

"I give good tips. Good night, Punkers."

This would be the cue for _I love you, Punkers_ and yet, nothing. Well, it seems like I was right, he doesn't love you. Maybe it's a good thing we aren't telling him he's getting fired after all.

"_I love you, Colt. I think they're going to future endeavour you. I'm sorry." _

If you want him to hear you, Mr Punk, you'll need to speak louder.

I'm not sure I do, I'm not sure anything I just said is something he wants to hear.

Three a.m. and I can't sleep.

Well would you like to talk about it, Mr Punk?

He's done here, isn't he? This _relationship_, it's over isn't it.

That would appear to be the case, Mr Punk.

I love him though.

Well, that's your problem isn't it?

I guess so. Fuck this, infomercials it is.

"Hurry up, fucker. You'll be late." You don't want to give them a good reason to get rid of you, Colt.

What are you doing, Mr Punk?

Goodbye kiss.

"Love you!" Even if you don't love me, fucker.

You know you're going to have to talk to him about this right. Make sure you're not just jumping to conclusions. Remember the last time, you gleefully jumped to conclusions, you don't own any mirrors to punch this time, Mr Punk.

We'll talk when he's less busy.

When he's fired, you mean.

Whose side are you even on, Life?

I just found out, they just called him. Fucking Johnny Ace grow a set and fire people to their faces. Fucking Cabana, answer your phone!

_The AT and T customer you are dialling cannot be reached at this time. Please leave a message._

"Pick up the phone, Colt."

_The AT and T customer you are dialling cannot be reached at this time. Please leave a message._

"Cabana, answer me!"

_Answer your phone, Colt! - sent 14:56_

_Fucking pick up the phone, Cabana! -sent 14:59_

_Scott, are you okay? - sent 15:06_

_The AT and T customer you are dialling cannot be reached at this time. Please leave a message._

"Scott, call me back. Please."

Fine, fine, don't answer your cell, fucker. Maybe he's at his parent's place.

"Hi, Mrs Colton, it's Punk."

_"Hello Punk! What's wrong, dear?"_

"Is Scott there?"

_"What? No. Why would he be here?"_

"You've not heard?"

_"Heard what, Punk?"_

"They... He got... He was released today."

_"I. Oh. Well, thank you for telling me, Punk. I'll call him. Do you want me to ask him to call you?"_

"Please. Thank you, Mrs Colton."

_"Marsha, Phil, how many times?"_

"Thanks, Marsha."

_Scott, I'm worried, let me know you're okay, please. I love you. - sent 16:04_

_Scott, I knew, I overheard a conversation Johnny Ace was having. I didn't tell you because I didn't want to believe it. They're fucking assholes. Call me when you get this, please. - sent 16:15_

_SCOTT FUCKING COLTON ANSWER YOUR GODDAMN MOTHERFUCKING PHONE! - sent 16:30_

_Please, Colt. Call me, okay? - sent 20:59_

_Colt, I'm sorry. - sent 21:24_

_Call me - Punk - sent 23:57_

Fuck you, ignore me then.

If you won't answer the phone, Cabana, you'll have to talk to me in person. Fuck, I hope he's okay, he has to be okay.

Well, at least I know why he didn't call me, he was busy. The ROH fans seem happy to have him back, that's good. Fucker still needs to talk to me and he has to come home soon, he can avoid his phone forever but not his apartment.

"Figured you have to come back home some time."

"Punkers?" Fuck, Colt, you look terrible.

"Hey, hey. It'll be okay. Don't cry."

"I don't know what to do, Punkers. Everything I wanted, poof, gone."

"It'll be okay. We'll work something out, it'll be okay." Stop crying, please, fucker, stop crying, I was doing such a good job of being pissed that you were ignoring me. Stop making forgive you.

"Phil, how the fuck can this be okay?" Don't get pissed with me, fucker.

"You're too good to not be at the top, Scott. I know you, Colt. You'll work something out. Hell, I saw the clip you sent Laurinaitis, people still care about you, the fans they still love you. So WWE didn't work out this time. There's always next time, fuck you could try TNA, you could stay at Ring of Honor, fuck, try Japan if you really wanted." Lots of options, fucker.

"I, yeah, I guess. It's just-"

"It was your dream. I know, fucker, I know. Now-"

"I love you."

"What?" Really, what? Also, fuck you, Life.

"I love you. I know, I've not told you that much lately, Phil but I do. I love you."

Now get my job back for me, is what he means, I believe, Mr Punk.

"You know, I love you, Scott. But this, this isn't a good time for this conversation."

"What conversation?" Oh don't look so confused, Cabana, you know exactly what we need to talk about.

"The 'I love you, you love me oh how happy we shall be' conversation. You're already soaking my shirt; I don't think anyone in this room needs to get further in touch with their feminine sides tonight."

"Fuck you, Punkers."

"Hey! Domestic abuse!" How you like getting punched, fucker. That's better, smile at me, we can have miserable shitty conversations in the morning. "So, fuck you, Punkers, that was an offer, right?" Come on, fucker, to bed. Shit will look better in the morning.

* * *

I'm slightly more content with Punk in this chapter, he's still a little out but I think we're getting back on track with him and look at him go, advancing the plot all by himself, I'm so proud.

**littleone1389**: I kind of side with Colt in the who has it worst stakes, at the moment at least. Lemme know what you think of Punkers here.

******agd888**: Thank you! It's going to get bumpier very soon.

**bitteralisa**: Colt did just lose his dream, poor thing a vague mental breakdown was inevitable, though it was strange to write him as the collapsing one for a change. Top!Punk isn't likely in this, for reasons relating back to the 2nd chapter of Comet and I don't write topPunk very well... I hope the Punk pov wasn't too disappointing. Miscommunication its the cornerstone of this _relationship_.

**InYouHonour**: Pitying Colt... It is a tradition but he's a poor wee soul. :(

_If you're apathetic to this continuing please don't **review**, if you would like **more**, **please** **do**!_

**_Reviews keep this from being lost in the shuffle of priorities._**


	5. The Soundless Dawn Came Alive

Colt Chapter: 2nd Person POV Warnings: Slash, smut, profanity

* * *

You dial Adam. You're beyond grateful he doesn't make you ask for a job, just asks when you want to start back, asks when you're clear to go on television. You come to an agreement quickly, ninety day no compete clauses can go to hell.

The next day you wrestle for PWG, it feels good to be back amongst friends, surrounded by people you know, you love, people who know you, who love you back.

A month later you go to ROH, when your music hit it was like coming home, with the crowd all chanting your name the spectre of Scotty fucking Goldman was exorcised. You felt wonderfully vindicated in sending that video to Johnny Ace, a big old fuck you to the pompous asshole who didn't give two fucks about you in the first place, who only hired you to shut other people up about you and how good you were.

Every time your cell rings and you see his number you ignore it, every text from him you can't think of a reasonable reply, something that isn't just bile so you leave them unanswered.

_Scott, I knew, I overheard a conversation Johnny Ace was having. I didn't tell you because I didn't want to believe it. They're fucking assholes. Call me when you get this, please. - Brooks 16:15_

He knew. The fucking asshole knew what they were going to do to you and he said _nothing_. He kept it to himself, let you think you would be able to get out of the hole they were burying you in and he fucking _knew _it was impossible, that they were going to kick you out the door. You've spent a long time thinking about how long he must have known, definitely when you were together in Chicago last, it explains why he was so clingy that night. After the first few days, you don't get too many more calls or texts from him, he'll have decided to talk to you in person so you avoid going home for a long time. If you know him, he'll be there as much as he can, laying in wait to justify himself to you, to explain, to placate. You're certain you don't want to be placated, you want to rage and fume and boil in fury. The very last thing you want is to be confronted by him and to have to hear anything he has to say. Eventually you have to go back though, the apartment is in darkness when you arrive, completely silent.

"Figured you have to come back home some time."

"Punkers?" His voice shocks you, it shouldn't, a part of you had expected him to be here but it does, larger part of you had wanted him to be on the road so you could feel justified in your bitterness towards him, off enjoying the dream that you had wanted for so incredibly long and you being back on the hustle, back out in the Indys. You want so very much to be furious with him, to scream and shout and blame him, even though you know it's not really his fault; you can't blame him for getting you fired, you can blame him for not warning you though; it's not even your fault really, it's just something shitty that happened. Something shitty that happened to you and but for the grace of Paul Heyman could have, would have and the cruel part of you adds should have, happened to him.

"Hey, hey. It'll be okay. Don't cry." You've collapsed into his arms before you even realise you've crossed the room, clutching that the shirt he's wearing, your favourite shirt, somehow that doesn't surprise you, you think it's slowly become his favourite shirt too.

"I don't know what to do, Punkers. Everything I wanted, poof, gone." You unclench your hands from the fabric and pull him tight to you, wrap yourself in him, his scent fills your lungs, his warmth seeps into you, replacing that horrid little ball of frigid anger inside of you. You feel his hands stroking your back, your hair, trying his best to soothe you, to calm you down.

"It'll be okay. We'll work something out, it'll be okay." He's not particularly good at comforting. You feel the anger creeping back.

"Phil, how the fuck can this be okay?" You've no idea how he can be so blasé about this, your dream has been ripped away from you, you're right back at square one and he's still there, he's got gold on his waist and you can't help but feel this is all a little, a lot if you're honest with yourself, unfair. You both started from the same place, you both have the same training, and the only difference is he convinced someone that he's good enough to be in the WWE, that he's better than you. You try to leave the circle of his arms, your anger risen to levels where a good screaming match is all you want but he clings to you, refusing to let you go, keeping you trapped, pressed close to him, your head under his chin.

"You're too good to not be at the top, Scott." His hands keep moving over your back firmly, his voice soft in your ear. "I know you, Colt. You'll work something out." Even though his voice is so very soft in your ear, the same biting bitterness, the pitch black hatred you feel towards them bleeds through it. "Hell, I saw the clip you sent Laurinaitis, people still care about you, the fans they still love you." That is true, you feel yourself relaxing in his arms once more, it was ridiculously gratifying to hear their reaction when your music hit and you tagged with Dragon, the thought makes you smile against his chest. "So WWE didn't work out this time. There's always next time, fuck you could try TNA, you could stay at Ring of Honor, fuck, try Japan if you really wanted." His words this time don't leave you angry, his words soothe your irritation, you have options, not the ones you wanted but he's right, there are still ways forward. You've always thought of yourself as the comforter in this relationship, as the one to soothe his hurt and to kiss his wounds, you've never really considered him a balm for your own pains but maybe you've just never let him try to be, he might be better at it that you first imagined, he's doing a good job so far.

"I, yeah, I guess. It's just-"

"It was your dream. I know, fucker, I know. Now-" You smile, of course he knows, he knows you. There will be a good reason for why he didn't tell you, it'll be a strange and mildly unfathomably Punk reason but a good one all the same.

"I love you." You blurt it out, it comes quite unexpectedly and it somehow surprises you how much you mean it. You love this ridiculous, confusing, ill-tempered, beautiful man who's holding you in his arms, even if lately you seem to be forgetting that.

"What?" He looks so horrifically confused. There was a time when telling him you love him would have him smiling your kitten soft smile and returning the phrase so very quickly, not gawping at you like he has no idea what to say, no clue what to do with the information you've just given him. You want to punch yourself, you should know him better than to let him doubt you and you clearly have. You've let his mind convince him that you don't love him at all, if you're honest you're pretty sure your own mind has been working to the same end.

"I love you. I know, I've not told you that much lately, Phil but I do." You stroke his hair from his face, brush your nose over his. "I love you." You need to remind him _and_ yourself of this more often you think but at least he doesn't look confused any more, just _sad_, so very sad and a little lost. You find that you hate that look; hate that he's so convinced that you don't care about him. You _do_, you _love_ him, he's your lover, your ally, your comrade, your _best_ friend, you partner, yours in every way that is important and a thousand that aren't. One good thing might come of this whole mess, with being fired you'll have enough time on your hands to convince him how much you love him again.

"You know, I love you, Scott." You are quite certain of that, there's no way he'd look so very _sad_ if he didn't love you but whilst he loves you, you can see he doubts you and your feelings so very much and that hurts. It hurts enough to replace any hurt you might have from him not telling you about being fired. "But this, this isn't a good time for this conversation."

"What conversation." You feel a different kind of cold seep into you. The tone he's speaking in, you don't know it, the look in his eyes, utterly unreadable.

"The 'I love you, you love me oh how happy we shall be' conversation." No matter how sweet those words sound, they're saturated with sorrow, what the hell has he convinced himself of now, this goes beyond _I don't think Colt loves me anymore_, this is straying in to dangerous territory. "You're already soaking my shirt; I don't think anyone in this room needs to get further in touch with their feminine sides tonight." You laugh softly at him, stroking his cheek, he's right, tomorrow you'll sort this out, tomorrow, you'll talk this all out. You won't let this turn into the mess that was the aftermath of Philly and the fucking shoebox he lived in there, this you will fix quickly, you're not enduring another twenty months of not having him. Tonight you'll do as he asks, tonight you'll treasure him as you probably should have so many times in the past, tonight you'll make a start on convincing him whatever it is he's convinced of is wrong.

"Fuck you, Punkers." You throw at light punch at his shoulder.

"Hey! Domestic abuse!" He returns the favour with a smile on his face. "So, fuck you, Punkers, that was an offer, right?" He lets you go and takes you to the bedroom, starts taking your clothes off and once you're naked you stop him from stripping himself, you wrap your arms around him, press your face where his neck meets his shoulder and hold him, soaking up the warmth of his body in your arms.

"Tomorrow, we'll talk. There's a lot we need to talk about but tonight." You step back from him, hold him from you at arm's length. "Tonight, what do you want to do, Punkers?" He raises his eyebrow at you.

"You want a faceful of cum?" He asks, something odd colouring his voice, something dangerously close bitter humiliation, you find yourself thinking more on the last time you were here, he told you there was no need for you to return the favour, perhaps at the time you should have asked more carefully as to why.

"If that's what you want, Punkers." You rub your thumbs in circles on his shoulders. He snorts an odd little amused sound.

"I don't think so." He steps out of your reach and pulls your shirt over his head, strips his pants and boxers off, leaving him as naked as you are. "What do you want to do?"

"Uh-uh, Punkers, you pick." You tell him, the space between you feels so very vast, despite being less than a foot, the air feels strangely heavy. He steps around you and sprawls on the bed.

"Anything?" His voice is a soft whisper. You nod.

"Anything, Punkers." You perch on the end of the bed, awaiting his decision. He grabs the little bottle of lube from beside the alarm clock and throws it to you.

"Make love to me." You nod, the request was not exactly what you were expecting and yet you're not surprised. You can take a guess at what is going on in that head of his, at the thoughts that will be swirling around in there. This is your chance to put those to the side, until tomorrow when you'll put them to rest. You lean over him and kiss him, trying to show him how much you love him with just your actions. You trail kisses over his neck, to that spot behind his ear that _always_ makes him moan so very softly, down his throat, along his collarbone, down his chest, stopping to suck at his nipples, trying to give equal attention to each one. He moans softly and arches into your mouth, his hands cupping the back of your head. "Colt." Your name is a soft little noise on his breath as you take his cock in your hand, licking around his belly button. You stroke him slowly, feeling him harden in your hand and move lower down the bed, wrapping your lips around the head of his cock, you suckle on it, swirling your tongue around the head, lapping at the slit, tasting his pre-cum. You lean back from him, uncap the lube and pour a generous amount into your hand, slicking your fingers and carefully slide one inside of him, his body almost painfully tight as always. As you move your finger back and forth inside of him, you take his cock back in your mouth, bobbing your head at the same pace as your finger inside of him; you stroke his prostate dragging a gasped _fuck_ from him, his fists thumping on the bed, toes curling, body going rigid. "More, Colt." You slide another finger inside of him, still sucking at him, you haven't had practice at blowing him but he seems to be enjoying your actions, the way his hands clench in the comforter, the way his face is twisted in pleasure, shows you how much he's enjoying it. You slide a third finger inside of him and cup his balls with your free hand, rolling them carefully, you suck and lick and bob on his cock as best you can and feel so very proud when his back arches off the bed, calling your name loudly as he comes. You swallow his cum, the taste oddly unfamiliar and sit up, to smile and stare at him, his chest is heaving, his body covered in a gleam of sweat. "I, fuck Colt, I, fuck." He gasps out, his breath slowly returning to normal, "Make love to me?" He asks, pulling you down for a soft kiss. You nod softly as you pull away from his lips and slick your cock with the lube, easing your way into his body, taking your time to enjoy watching his face, his eyes, as you slowly ease every inch of your cock inside of him. Once fully inside of his body, you move slowly, feel him arch into your languid and deep thrusts, his head pressing against the pillows, you slide you hands under his shoulders, pull him up to you, pepper his face with kisses, your thrusts slowing to gentle rocks inside of his tight body.

"I love you." You tell him, between kisses. He moans as your gentle movements nudge his prostate, his body tightening in your arms, his cock slowly hardening between your bodies.

"Move." He gasps, trying to buck his hips to force you to move more within him, you press a firm kiss to his lip and move your hands, letting his head rest back against the pillows and brace your hands either side of him, speeding your thrusts up. His eyes drift closed, head pressed back, throat exposed to you. You kiss and nibble at it. "More." You accommodate his request, speed up, thrusting inside of him with more quickly, more forcefully. You feel his reawakened cock firm between you.

"Touch yourself." You think it should have been more of a question rather than the order it sounded like but he does what you wanted, he wraps his hand around his cock and strokes himself in time with you. "I'm close, Punkers. Come for me?" He nods slightly, gasping and moaning softly, too far gone for words. He comes wordlessly, almost soundlessly, quivering in your arms, looking truly beautiful. You think it is more likely that how beautiful he looked then as he comes that brought your own climax rather than the sensations of his body pulsing around your length. You pull out of him carefully and flop onto your back; you reach for him, let him rest his head on your chest.

"Thanks, I think I needed that." He says softly. You tilt his face so that he's looking at you and stroke his hair back from his face.

"Don't thank me. I love you, being with you, making love to you, it's not something you have to thank me for Punkers, it's not something you have to _ask _me for. I love you, don't forget that, okay?" You stroke his cheek as you talk, watch his eyes carefully, they're guarded but softening, whatever his mind has concocted is being chipped away by your persistence.

"I, okay, okay. I got it." He mutters, rubbing his cheek against your palm before pressing a kiss to it.

"I do, you know that right? I love you, Phil."

"Even though I'm an asshole?"

"Especially when you're an asshole." He laughs; you find yourself shaking your head at him and squeeze him tightly.

"Okay, you love me, got it." He rests his head back on your chest. "You love me and I love you." He says softly. "G'night Colt."

"You love me? Good, remember that. Good night Punkers, love you." You kiss his hair and listen to his breathing even out in sleep before letting yourself drift off.

You wake up before him, for a change, to the feeling of his breathe against your bare skin and his hair in your mouth. You lie awake stroking his hair waiting for him to wake up.

"You wanna do this now or after breakfast?" He asks eventually, his voice croaky and soft as it always is when he wakes up.

"Why didn't you tell me you knew they were going to fire me?" You find yourself asking him, you'd intended to tell him you wanted to eat first but the words come tumbling out of your mouth before you've really thought about them. He moves from your arms, sits crossed legged on the end of the bed, curled in on himself.

"I." He starts and stops, stares at the little alarm clock on the table by your bed. "I didn't know what to say. I was." He sighs and rubs his hand over his face. "I didn't want to tell you something based on speculation. I didn't have the full story; I didn't have enough to be able to tell you when or why or anything useful." You hear the _'I didn't want to worry you'_ he doesn't say.

"So you said nothing to spare me?" He sighs again and shakes his head, then nods.

"I guess." You feel yourself smiling at him, a good if ridiculous and entirely Punk reason.

"I suppose in your place, I'd have done the same." You tell him, you definitely wouldn't have told him if the shoe was on the other foot. He would have blown up at you and then at them and manage to get himself, you and anyone who had ever worked for or heard of ROH fired. If he had told you, you would have brooded on it, worried at it like a sore tooth and made the situation a thousand times worse. You can only imagine what it would have been like knowing that they were planning on getting rid of you, it was bad enough speculating on it but to know, to have it be a sure thing without knowing the date, that would have been so much worse. "Thanks, Punkers. You did the right thing." You reach out to him and he withdraws further into himself, curling his arms around himself more, shrinking from your touch.

"There's something I want to ask you, Colt." He says, in that horrid indecipherable tone. "But, I don't. I don't know how to say it, it's." He trails off and sighs. "It's nothing, it's stupid, forget it." you move down the bed and wrap yourself around him. You'll have to wait him out on this, it seems, there's no point in trying to pry what's bothering him out of him, he'll only clam up even more.

"I love you." You tell him. "I don't know what's going on in there." You drum your fingers on his head gently and you don't, you can make guesses, educated guesses but all they are is guesses, trying to understand all of what goes on inside his head, catching the wind is easier. "But what I do know is I love you." You press a soft kiss to his temple and you do, this mess, this horrible awful run at WWE, going back on the hustle, it's reminded you how much you love him, need for him to be there for you, how with a simple smile he can make you feel so much better, so much more like yourself. "I might forget to tell you that but I _am_ an idiot, remember."

"Tell me something I don't know." He looks at you and slowly the misery in his eyes melts away, that familiar soft expression taking its place.

"You're an asshole." He unwinds his arms from around himself, wraps them around you instead.

"I know that." His lips form your smile.

"I love you." You say and kiss him, pouring as much your love into it as you can. You pull back resting your forehead against his.

"Yeah, I know that too."

* * *

Colt and I have fought a great deal over this chapter, he wanted it to be more sappy and self-pitying and I just wanted him to advance the plot a little more, we both refused to back down and this is where we ended up, a kind of mildly sappy stalemate... Lemme know what you all think! :D

******bitteralisa**: I slipped that line in hoping it wouldn't get noticed until you had to go back and think about it.:D Now that he's fired Colt seems to be back on track on the feelings front for now at least, don't know if he's justified himself or not though. I'm glad Life is doing it's job and sowing the little seeds of doubt in your mind too, that's the point of it after all! LoL Russian proverb is an awesome and wondrous thing, I am so grateful for you introducing it to me!

**littleone1389**: I don't think there's any major surprises or plot twists in here but then I know the plot so well it's difficult for me to judge, let me know! Things are only getting worse, no matter how pleasant and lovely they look right now! :D

**InYourHonour:** I hope it didn't disappoint! :D

**alizabethianrose**: Miserable conversation not quite as miserable as I had hoped but it's mostly downhill from here. :S

**agd888**: Unfortunately, Life's whole reason for existing is to be a massive dick! LoL It's the little voice in the back of Punk's mind that whispers every unpleasant and terrible thought. I'm so glad you're still here though, I love getting your reviews! :D

**_Reviews keep me motivated to keep writing, so if you're interested in more please leave one, even if it's just Hey, that didn't suck, I've be so far and beyond grateful. Heck even if you thought it did suck tell me too, something is better than nothing._**


	6. Outside Interference

Punk chapter: 1 person PoV Warnings: Slash, Profanity

* * *

_"I love you."_

He loves me.

_"I love you. I know, I've not told you that much lately, Phil but I do, I love you."_

He loves me, he knows he's been neglecting me but he loves me.

_"Don't thank me. I love you, being with you, making love to you, it's not something you have to thank me for Punkers, it's not something you have to ask me for, I love you, don't forget that, okay."_

I'm not a chore, he loves me.

_"I do, you know that right? I love you, Phil, especially when you're an asshole."_

He loves me despite my flaws, despite my faults, despite me being an asshole.

_"You love me? Good, remember that. Good night Punkers, love you."_

I love him; I need to remember that. He loves me.

_"Thanks, Punkers, you did the right thing. I love you. "_

I-

You really didn't though, did you Mr Punk?

Shut up. He loves me.

_"I don't know what's going on in there but what I do know is I love you."_

He really has no clue at all, does he, Mr Punk.

_"I love you."_

He loves me.

Okay so he loves you and is an idiot, we've established that.

Shut up.

Although, I guess we can cross _Colt doesn't love me_ off our list of excuses.

Shut up, shut up, shut up, just fucking shut the fuck up.

I dropped the IC title, this comes as no surprise, picking up Money in the Bank, did, getting moved to Smackdown was precisely not what I wanted, the feud they told me I was starting tonight was even more of what I didn't want.

"Punk, wanna come by my room, discuss where we're going with this feud?"

Ah Jeff, he's a nice enough guy, isn't he, Mr Punk. It's just a shame he makes poor choices but then again poor choices are so easy to make on the road, always away from home, always away from the people we _love._

"Sure, where are you?"

"507, come by after the show, okay?"

"507, sure."

Well, that's nice isn't it, look at you go, Mr Punk, busy making _friends_.

"Hey, you made it. Come in, come in."

"Yeah thanks." Hey, what the fuck, don't fucking kiss me; get your fucking hands off me. "Hey! Fucking stop!"

"What? You didn't fuss last time."

"I'm in a relationship, asshole."

"Didn't stop you before, Punk."

"Look Hardy, that was-"

Was what, Mr Punk?

"It shouldn't have happened. It won't happen again. You actually wanna talk work or not?"

"Just do what Creative tells you."

"Fine, whatever."

"You change your mind, you know where I am."

"I won't."

_Hero says Hi! He also says you look fat. I punched him. Love you. xoxo - Cabanarama DingDong 22:15_

_Thank you - sent 23:22_

_Two-time champ, something to celebrate right? xoxo - Cabanarama DingDong 23:32_

_It is? I think I'm celebrating by being on the road forever. - sent 23:46_

_Ha, well you're champ, what'd you expect? xoxo - Cabanarama DingDong 23:51_

_A day off? - sent 23:58_

_Good luck with that, Punkers. xoxo- Cabanarama DingDong 00:04_

_Luck is for losers. Got to sleep, fucker. Love you. - sent 00:13_

_Yeah, yeah. Love you, see you when you finally get home. xoxo - Cabanarama DingDong 00:16_

Well, Mr Punk, when _are_ you going home, you going to tell him this time or are you going to pussy out of it again? _"There's something I want to ask you, Colt" _I imagine that asking him if he can forgive you your little accident-

It wasn't an accident. I sure as hell didn't trip and fall on Hardy's fucking cock; I knew what I was doing.

Not an accident? Knew what you were doing? Care to explain to the voices in your head, then.

I wanted to hurt him. I wanted to hurt him for hurting me, for abandoning me, for ignoring me, for forgetting me.

Ah, I see that feminine side of yours again, Mr Punk.

Fuck you. I know this was his dream, I know he was busy but he knows me, knows what I'm like, knows what my fucking stupid head is capable of conjuring up.

Fuck you, Mr Punk.

He should know better than to abandon me. He knows how many times I've felt, I've been abandoned and still for months he ignored. He knows the shit I've been through with my _family_, girlfriends.

Well, that part might actually play in your favour, after all how many girls have you cheated on with him?

That's different, that, there wasn't the same feelings involved.

_Feelings_.

I love him.

You cheated on him because you thought he didn't love you?

But he does love me, though; he said so more times in one night than I've heard from anyone else in my life.

He said it an awful lot, maybe he was trying to convince himself that he loves you; you're an asshole who fucked the first guy to show the slightest bit of interest in him.

I wouldn't call trying to punch me interest.

Attempted assault changed to kissing soon enough as I recall, Mr Punk. It was like something out of a bad romance novel, really you should be ashamed of being such a cliché, Mr Punk.

He loves me and I fucked someone else, I have bigger things to be ashamed of than being the heroine in a fucking dime store romance novel.

He loves you, well the question is then, does he love you enough to forgive you?

That's not the point, even if he forgives me, even if he says it's okay, it doesn't matter to him, he still loves me. It matters to me, it's not okay, I can't forgive myself so I've been inventing excuses, reasons, explanations to put the blame off of me, to put it somewhere else and there isn't anywhere else for it to go. I cheated on him. I fucked up. I fucked someone else. I destroyed this relationship. Me. There's only me to blame. I need to tell him, I know I do. I need to let him know that we're over, I can't keep doing this, it's not fair to him, it's not fair to me. We need to finish this before it gets even messier, before it hurts us both even more. We've tried being in love, tried being in a relationship, it's not worked. It's time to finish it.

Very responsible of you, Mr Punk.

Shut up, I don't need the voices in my head being sarcastic fucking assholes.

So, when are we going to tell him?

_Hey! I'm gonna be home Friday night/Saturday morning. You be able to be there? xoxo - Cabanarama DingDong 10:56_

Friday night/Saturday morning, I guess.

* * *

So this is what has really be playing on Punkers' mind, I think Life can be forgiven for being a bitch to him in earlier chapters really, as for when this instance of cheating happened, I've mentally placed it on the date of the brand drafts in 2008 before Cabana was called up, for those interested.

I am certain Punk is out once more, as ever you comments and criticism is more than welcome on characterisation, this is also I think the last major _twist_ in the plot but yeah, all downhill from here on out.

**littleone1389**: This would be the beginning of the storm, I guess, although I'm not sure storm is how I would describe it, more like a collapse but we'll see. :)

**bitteralisa**: This would be what is bothering dear little Punk... Not sure if this is the revelation you were expecting, you're usually good at guessing at where I'm going with things though, Mentor. :3

******agd888**: Hopefully not too bad... I'm so grateful for your thoughts on my portrayal of them both, I worry about this a great deal. (as anyone unfortunate enough to have gotten locked into a conversation with me can tell you. LoL)

**_Reviews keep me motivated to keep writing, so if you're interested in more please leave one, even if it's just Hey, that didn't suck, I'd be so far and beyond grateful. Heck even if you thought it did suck tell me too, something is better than nothing after all._**


	7. Everyone Reveled in Their Ignorance

Colt Chapter: 2nd Person POV Warnings: Slash, profanity.

* * *

When you get home, the place is dark, you know he should be back, know that he should be at home waiting for you, which would usually mean asleep on the sofa wrapped up in that damn ugly blanket he seems so very fond of but neither he nor it are there waiting for you. You take off your coat and shoes, his sneakers are sitting on the floor beneath the coat hook, as they usually are, curiously neat and straight awaiting their owner. His quirks are myriad, you smile and shake your head, pulling your shirt over your head, stripping down to boxers and stuffing your dirty clothes into the washer he insisted on buying when he more or less moved in with you.

He's in bed, curled up in a little ball, the ugly blanket cuddled to his chest like a stuffed animal. You stand and watch him sleep, most people say that their loved ones look peaceful when they sleep, that they look younger, that it's somehow enjoyable to watch but as you stand and look at him, he looks so exhausted, so plainly miserable, curled in on himself, you think that you'll never enjoy watching it from this angle, when he sleeps in your arms, he seems so much more relaxed, more peaceful, more at ease, it's a much better way to watch him sleep but that might be a matter of perspective.

You slip into bed behind him and stroke his shoulder. "Punkers?" He makes a soft sleepy noise and turns to face you, the dull light of your alarm clock casting odd shadows over his face, you expect him to settle on your chest, you expect to be able to wrap your arms around him, stroke his hair and kiss him but all he does is stare at you.

"You're back." He says softly, he sounds surprised. You know you were busy but you're sure you'd texted him to let him know you'd be back tonight; you remember sending it to him. You've been so much more careful to keep in touch with him, so much more careful to remind him he's loved but it doesn't seem to be helping much, he still seems so very _sad_.

"Yup, I'm home. C'mere." If he won't come to you, you'll guide him there instead; you wrap your arms around him, tuck his head beneath your chin and take in his scent. "Missed you." You press a kiss to his hair. He's rigid in your arms, not soft and pliant like normal. "What's wrong? What's happened?" You try to tilt his face to look at you but he pulls away, lies on his side, arms wrapped around himself, his back to you. "Punkers, what's the matter?"

"I." He gets out of bed and starts pulling on his clothes."I can't do this."

"What?" Panic and dread fill you, what can't he do?

"_This_!" He waves his hand around the room, including you in his broad sweeping gesture.

"What, Punkers?" You sit up slowly, you aren't sure what's happened now but it's something awful, what you don't know but it's bad, worse than bad, cataclysmic.

"You and me, this, I can't do _this_ anymore." He looks exhausted, on the verge of breakdown.

"Why? I thought-"

"It doesn't matter what you thought, Colt. This, us, we're over." He leaves the bedroom and you follow him.

"That's it? After everything, this is it? Two years together, two fucking years of pining for you and all I get is this?" You know you sound too pitiful, too much like a petulant child but you can't quite work out where this has come from, you had agreed that with your schedules that once a week would be enough for a phone call, you'd agreed to home together as much as you could, text when you can; you've both stuck to the agreement. You're sure you've held up your end of the bargain, you're sure that you'd been chipping away at whatever madness he had convinced himself was true, so very sure that you were redeeming yourself with him.

"Yes. We're done here." He hasn't looked at you; he's busy tying his shoes.

"Why?" You find yourself shouting. "What did I do?"

"It's nothing you'v-"

"Oh no, Phil, you're not leaving me with that fucking shitty excuse, _it's not you, it's me_." You snarl at him, anger rapidly filling you.

"But it _is_ me." He snaps back at you, glaring at you. "It is me, I fucked up. Me. Not you." He smacks his hand against his chest with each word, there's so much anger and hate in his eyes but it's all directed inwards, you have a horrid suspicion you might know where he's going with this, what he's done.

"Okay." You hold your hands up placating. "What did you do, Phil?" You step closer to him; he's shaking, trembling like a leaf in the wind, you're shaking too but you think for different reasons. The last time you felt like this you were holding a lemon in your hand, this time though; no citrus fruit were harmed in the making of this argument.

"I fucked someone else." He says quietly and leaves the apartment before you have time to react. You stare at the door. He fucked someone else. Someone else fucked _him_ or _he_ fucked someone else? Does it matter? Should it matter? You stare and stare at the door, waiting for him to come back, to give you at better explanation, to let you scream and shout and rage at him. You slump into the armchair that faces the door and stare at it but it never opens.

The sounds of Chicago waking up rouses you from what was probably a nap you needed. Your apartment is silent and for a minute, you aren't sure why you're sitting in the armchair and not in bed with Punk.

You glance at the sofa, a vision of him sprawled along it, shirtless and watching Mexican soaps, straddling your thighs smiling as you tell him you love him for the first time, asleep curled up in that fucking hideous blanket waiting for you to come home, fucking him on it, kissing him, holding him, sitting with his head in your lap, his feet in your lap stroking his ankle on it. You've never really considered how much strength it would take to destroy a sofa but as you stand in the ruins of what had once been yours, your chest heaving, scratches and cuts littering your arms, you find it's not as much as you would think.

Your first thought is much like it was in Philadelphia, who? Who the fuck were you practice for?

_**I love Colt**_

That fucking stupid dried out husk of a lemon, you fall to your knees in the splintered wood and torn cushions of the corpse of your sofa and stare at it. Another thought creeps into your mind, overrides the initial one, who the fuck filled in for you? Who stepped up to the plate whilst you were busy batting for your dreams?

You know him, you know what he is capable of doing to himself, you know how that bleak little mind of his works, how it picks out his flaws, hones in on his insecurities and he has so very many of those, amplifies them until they're all he can hear. You know the vicious little voices that whisper into his ear. You can make guesses, educated guesses, at what they would be telling him, that you were too busy for him, that he wasn't important to you, that you didn't love him, that you were exactly the same as everyone else who was supposed to love but ultimately neglected him, that you were no better than the family who passed him over, the people who were supposed to love and care for him the most, who offered him nothing and took everything. You should have tried harder, you should have paid more attention, you should have been more careful but no matter how careful you are, sometimes things fall apart, they break and there is nothing you can do to fix them. You weren't careful enough and now this relationship, it's broken. A wry bitter part of you adds _again_ to that thought.

You've tried being in love with him, you've tried being his friend, you've tried being his fuck-buddy, you've tried being nothing to him, none of these things work, you just don't work together but you're too entwined, too much a part of each other to not be involved with him somehow and right now you want nothing quite so much as for that to not be true.

_WHY THE FUCK IS PHIL AT MY PLACE? - Ace 04:47_

The only message on your phone. It somehow doesn't surprise you that he went to Ace, of all the places he could go in your city he chose to go to him. It says a lot about Punk's state of mind, really. If he thought he was the injured party in this, he would have gone to sisters or the woman who is essentially his mother in all things but genetics, to where he would be coddled and looked after, as he did when he fractured his skull. Going to Ace means he _knows_ he's in the wrong, knows that he's not innocent, Ace won't ask questions, won't pry, will, however, offer vague but helpful advice and a solid helping of assurances that yes, Punk, you are an idiot.

_You asked him? - sent 08:19_

_WAS GONE BEFORE I WOKE UP. THE FUCK YOU PAIR OF IDIOTS DONE NOW? - Ace 08:26_

You aren't sure if Ace means to be shouting or if he just has no idea how to switch off the caps lock on his phone.

_IS THIS GOING TO BE ANOTHER FUCKING MESS LIKE PHILADELPHIA? -Ace 08:32_

Both you and Punk were careful to not talk about it, you know it shouldn't come as a surprise that Ace is aware of the Philadelphia fiasco but it does, he never said anything, you suppose that's just because he trusted you both to sort it out eventually and you did, eventually, it's just you've made another fucking mess of it, possibly an even bigger mess this time. You write and delete a dozen replies before settling on.

_I don't know. -sent 09:47_

To say that moving on is easy would be a lie, there's a gaping hole somewhere inside of you, one that is unlikely to be filled anytime soon but you move forward. You have to, you need to get your shit together, you moped the last time this mess of a relationship fell apart, you moped and look where it got you, it got you Scotty fucking Goldman and this calamity so this time you forge on. You work like a man possessed, you get a tryout with TNA and they tell you that you didn't bring your A-game; you're being shunted out of ROH, as Cornette likes to remind you, _funny does not equal money_. You need to do this on your own, you need to be more _punk_ about this situation, you need to do-it-yourself. Colt Cabana is a brand and you, Scott Colton, are the entire staff. You can't rely on some big promotion, can't rely on anyone but yourself, really.

You make new friends, spend more time amongst them, your comedy circuit friends, if only for the reason these people tend not to ask questions in the vein of _Aren't you CM Punk's friend?_ You aren't quite sure if the answer to that is no or yes. He doesn't text, he doesn't call, he's gone, like the wind, utterly uncatchable. He came by to collect his things and the ugly blanket for some curious reason, when you were on the road, posted his key through the letter box, bought a place somewhere in Chicago, you aren't sure where, Ace mentioned that it was nice, big, expensive. You've never seen it, you doubt you ever will.

For all he doesn't contact you, you don't contact him, you made the first move last time, you sent him that fucking lemon, he may have come to you but it was only after the olive branch had been extended. Philadelphia was your fault, it was you jumping to conclusions, pushing him away, this is very much his and if you know Punk and deep down you concede that you do know him better than most people who aren't him, even if you wish you didn't, he'll not take that first step. He'll have filed this situation, you included, under _things that I have done and shouldn't do again_. So you leave it, let it fester like an untreated wound because really until you actually talk to the stupid bastard you'll have no idea what the hell he was thinking and you _know _that if you call he'll hang up, if you text he'll ignore it, you email he'll delete, you think that if you sent a carrier pigeon he'd bake it into a pie rather deal with you. Alls you can do is wait him out and Punk is a man of considerable patience, when he wants to be, waiting for him could take a long time, it could take forever if he's so inclined.

You occasionally watch Smackdown, watch it see how he is, he won't talk to you and you won't talk to him, he hurt you, broke you if you're entirely honest but you still care, can't ever really picture a life where you won't care, he's been too much of you for too long to just cut him out like he's done to you. This straightedge society thing has the hallmarks of Punk all over it and you can see the fingerprints of Creative prodding at it to make it more PG. You can imagine his frustration and irritation at their interfering. You are glad he's surrounded himself with people you know, you befriended Drew when you were on Smackdown, have kept in touch with him, the odd text here and there, meeting up when you're in the same city, gently questioning him regarding Punk's mental state, the answer is always the same, the answer is always deteriorating.

_U in town? - Suntan Bikerman 22:39_

_I am, why? You want to go get a beer? - sent 22:46_

You haven't quite gotten out of the habit of using proper grammar in text messages, text speak would wind Punk up so much that you never really adopted it, you suppose that if you wanted to use the most ridiculous text abbreviations these days you could.

_No meet me - Suntan Bikerman 22:49_

He sends you directions to a nicer part of town, to a better hotel than where you're staying.

He's sitting in the lobby, looking entirely out of place in this clearly upmarket establishment, the WWE looks after even their jobbers well.

"What's up, man?" You ask him, he looks exhausted as though he's not slept in a long time; Punk has that affect on people though.

"You need to go deal with him." He scrubs his face with his hand, you laugh at him, what the hell does he expect you to be able to do, you've not spoken to Punk since he left your apartment, months ago. "You gotta sort him out or I'll fucking kill him and I don't think you want to be down a best friend."

* * *

And so the epic avoidance and lack of communication begins and boy can these two avoid the elephant in the room... As ever your comments and criticism are more than welcome.

******alizabethianrose**: I'm honestly, at this stage if this is COlt forgiving him or just plain old accepting that well Punk is an idiot and does stupid things. Please feel free to batter the pair of them with imaginary sticks. :D

**littleone1389**: No twists this time! Honest! All straight forward, just epically avoiding talking to each other and killing sofas. :)

**bitteralisa**: Lita was the first consideration for the _incident_ but after deciding that 1. I can't write her in anyway I'm happy with and 2. Punk was already cheating on various girlfriends with Colt that sleeping with another woman wouldn't have quite the same impact, Mr Hardy offered to lend his services.

**agd888**: I can only hope this chapter didn't disappoint! I'm also glad you enjoyed the twist.

For those interested, I'm mapping out a plot for a little off shoot explaining the Jeff Incident in more detail. As for this pair actually discussing it, paper plot puts an actual conversation in at chapter 9 at this rate it might get moved. (Gentlemen, please stop procrastinating.)

**_Reviews keep me motivated to keep writing, so if you're interested in more please leave one, even if it's just Hey, that didn't suck, I'd be so far and beyond grateful. Heck even if you thought it did suck tell me too, something is better than nothing after all._**


	8. Dusty Finish

Punk chapter: 1 person PoV Warnings: Slash, Profanity and a slow descent into mild madness.

* * *

"Punkers?"

"You're back." Shit, I need more time to plan this out; I need more time to work out how to tell him.

"Yup, I'm home. C'mere." Colt, don't, don't fucking hold me like this. "Missed you." Don't tell me that, don't make this harder than it already is. "What's wrong? What's happened? Punkers, what's the matter?"

"I."

What's the problem Mr Punk? How hard is it to say _I'm a whore who let another man fuck me_?

"I can't do this." Shut up! I can't say that, it'll _break_ him.

"What?"

Well, Mr Punk, maybe you should have thought of that before you went and fucked Hardy, hmm.

"_This_!" I need out of his bed, I need space between us, distance between us so I can think, I can't ever think when he's too close to me.

Breaking his heart isn't going to be easier from the other side of the room, Mr Punk.

"What, Punkers?"

"You and me, this, I can't do _this_ anymore."

"Why? I thought-"

"It doesn't matter what you thought, Colt. This, us, we're over." I need out of here, out of this room, this apartment, this building. I need away.

Very brave, Mr Punk.

"That's it? After everything, this is it? Two years together, two fucking years of pining for you and all I get is this?" There's nothing else I can fucking give you, Colt.

"Yes. We're done here." We have to be, Colt, you'll thank me for this in the end. I should never have dragged you into this fucking mess, should have never dragged you down with me.

"Why?" That's it get angry, shout at me; I'm an asshole, a_ whore_. "What did I do?" No! No, nonononono, Colt!

"It's nothing you'v-"

"Oh no, Phil, you're not leaving me with that fucking shitty excuse, _it's not you, it's me_."

"But it _is_ me. It is me, I fucked up. Me. Not you." Only me, my insecurities, my stupidity, my fuck-ups, you're better off without me, Colt, trust me.

"Okay, what did you do, Phil?"

_I let Jeff Hardy fuck me because I am a stupid, self-centred whore_, I believe are the words you looking for, Mr Punk.

"I fucked someone else."

And brave, Sir Punk, he ran away. Bravely ran away, away. When owning up reared its ugly head, he bravely turned his tail and fled. Yes, brave Sir Punk turned about and gallantly he chickened out.

Shut up! Come on, come on, answer the fucking phone, how hard is it to answer a fucking phone, old man? "Ace? I need a place to crash."

_"Phil? Sleep at Scott's."_

"Can't."

"_Why? It's four in the fucking morning, Phil. What the fuck have you two done now? Fuck it, tell me in the morning. You've a key right. Let yourself in."_

What have we done now, _we've_ done nothing, this is all me. Phil Brooks, relationship expert, the World's most faithful man.

You've managed to be faithful to _one_ person, _surely_, Sir Punk. How about, oh, or how about, no she's no good either. Huh, you were fucking him behind _every_ _single_ girlfriend's back and then you fucked Hardy behind his. Well done, Sir Punk, maybe they give awards out for shittiest boyfriend ever, you would definitely be in the running.

_"__Jeff, you've got two strikes. You know how many I have? Zero. Jeff, you know how many times I've been suspended? Zero. You know how many times I've been to a rehab facility? That's right, zero. And do you know what your chances are of beating me at Night of Champions?__ Zero."_

"What the fuck was that, Punk?"

Mr Hardy makes a good point, Sir Punk. I'm quite sure bringing up his sordid past; all of his strikes, his fuck-ups was very much not part of the script Creative handed you.

"A promo, Hardy. A good promo, I'm sure you've heard them, even if you can't give them." Fuck you both.

Sir Punk, you've already crossed Hardy off the list, poor choices and all that.

"Thought I fucking told you to do what Creative told you."

"I did."

"Did they fuck tell you to go out there and say that shit, you fucking asshole."

"They _told_ me to cut a promo; I just made it _better_ than the pile of shit they gave me."

"Fuck you, Punk. Fuck you and your fucking bullshit. _Just_ do what they fucking _tell_ you."

"I did."

_"It's the same thing week after week after week because you don't listen, you never have. Those who don't learn from history are doomed to repeat it."_

Ah, Sir Punk, maybe you should practice what you preach. How many times have you made the same mistakes?

_"It's extremely difficult to be me."_

I'm sure it is, Sir Punk so very difficult to avoid your problems so very studiously.

_"It's hard to quit, I know. It takes a very strong person to quit but an even stronger person would have never even started."_

I should have never started this whole thing with him in the first place. I should have been strong; I need to be strong.

_"It starts and it can't happen without, learning how to say no to temptation."_

Just say no, huh, brave Sir Punk?

_"People say they can change. I'm not, I'm not gonna enable you right now, in fact I don't wanna be in the same ring as you right now. I'm gonna do what I always do, what you should've done a long time ago, I'm gonna just say no."_

What you always do, Sir Punk? I believe that you wouldn't be in this mess if you'd said no in the first place, I'm sure that you could have managed an _'I'm in a relationship'_.

_"Sometimes it's what you don't do that makes you who you are."_

You're a mess because you can't say no to a cheap fuck, I suppose, Sir Punk.

_"Because you sure can't be strong like me."_

I need to be, I can handle my own shit. Fuck you Life, I can get up on my own, I don't need him. I don't need his ten count.

_"I tell the truth and the truth sometimes hurts, doesn't it?"_

Yes, Sir Punk, I'm sure it does. You're fucking falling apart, you know. When was the last time you slept.

_"Alls I have to do is end Jeff Hardy and believe me when I say, I want to do it."_

I get rid of Hardy, get rid of this fucking feud and I can get myself together, I don't fucking need him.

_"From here on out, there's nothing left. At Summerslam, I will hurt you and I will remove you and the stain of all your bad examples from the WWE forever."_

I will fucking get rid the stain of you from me, motherfucker.

_"The whole thing is unfair and it borderlines on conspiracy because the higher-ups are terrified of me, just like you people are because you fear what you don't understand"_

Not one of those people in Creative knows what the fuck to do with me, not one of the assholes in Connecticut have any understanding of what I'm capable of doing for them. Fuck, this is going to be like the last time I had this fucking belt, once this feud with Hardy is over, I'm gonna be dropping it and making my way back down to the mid-card. I need a plan, I need a contingency. I need to be more punk about this, I need to do-it-myself, I can't rely on these people.

I'm not sure you can rely on yourself, brave Sir Punk.

_"No more excuses."_

Hardy's gone, Sir Punk. You're still not sleeping, what to blame next?

If there is anything, more humiliating that being told to dress like a champion by Taker then I don't want to hear it.

I can think of a few things, Sir Punk.

Seriously, what the fuck should it matter how I fucking dress, I am clearly not the suit and tie type.

Nor are you the type with enough pull to justify comparing yourself to Cena, really, Sir Punk, what were you thinking? Were you even thinking at all? Perhaps we should instigate some kind of screening program for the shit that comes tumbling out of your mouth. It might stop you from being relegated to Superstars because once wind of this gets to Vince that is where you're going.

Shut up, I'm sure Creative have something for me and if they don't well fuck them, I have something for them.

"So what am I doing now? I've an-"

"Well, Mr Brooks, we've some ideas but Mr McMahon has yet to approve any of them an-"

"Where is he?" Fuck you idiots; I have four-fucking-teen week's worth of television in my hands. Fourteen week's worth of _good_ television, not something you assholes are familiar with, I'm sure.

"He's in his office."

"Thanks." Fucking Creative, useless bunch of fucking assholes. Let's go see Vinnie Mac, show just how productive the undersized Internet darling has been.

Well good luck, Sir Punk.

Its nice being tucked away out of sight and out of mind down here, I get away with so much.

Like having old women slap you, Sir Punk.

Means I'm doing something right, doesn't it? The best heel in the fucking company should be hated, vilified, and slapped by little old fucking grannies.

Well, at least you're good at playing an asshole on TV, finally all the practice in real life is paying off.

_"If at any time you feel the need, I want you to place your hand on the screen and feel the power of Punk flow through you."_

Ah, Sir Punk, how many people have felt the _power of Punk_ flow through them?

Shut up, shut up, _fucking_ shut up. There's been no one since him. Nobody, don't want anybody else near me.

No one but him? Have you even considered calling him then, telling him that, brave Sir Punk?

And say what? What the fuck do I say to him? Gee, I'm real sorry I cheated on you, let's be BFFs again. Can I sleep on your couch so I can at least be closer to you, you don't need to do anything, just let me stay here. No, not happening, there's no way to fix this, there's no way to make this right, it's better to just leave it alone, chalk it up to experience and move on. It's done now, I won't do it again.

"One nation, under Punk, indivisible, with integrity and sobriety for all."

Integrity, the irony is killing me, Sir Punk.

Good.

The irony of a whore like you playing the holier-than-thou cult leader, if these people knew what you've done, knew how you take the good things in your life and destroy them just for the sake of watching them burn, how many of these silly sheep do you think would follow you then.

It's a gimmick, it's just a gimmick. I don't want, I don't need these people.

You want him, you _need_ him. You should have fucking stayed in his apartment, waited for him to come home, talked to him instead of just taking your stuff and sneaking out like a fucking thief. Call him, you cowardly bastard.

Shut up, I don't need him. I can deal with my own problems. I don't need him, I don't need anyone.

How you can think that with a straight face is beyond me, Sir Punk. You're sitting wrapped up in his fucking blanket, wearing his fucking shirt, watching Billy fucking Graham, taking fucking notes. You need someone, you _need _him, Sir Punk.

"You gonna sleep at all tonight, Punk?"

"Huh?" Drew? "I was sure you'd gone out."

It's nice you pay attention to your _friends, _Sir Punk. Poor Luke, he'll be heart-broken, maybe you can add him to that _special _friend list.

Shut up!

"Punk, man, seriously, you need to rest. You look like shit."

"Huh?" Don't you fucking look at me like that, I'm fine. "Thanks."

"It's not healthy, Punk. All night watching that brainwashing preacher stuff. I know you care about the gimmick but fuck man, _sleep_."

"Yeah, yeah, I'll try."

You've been trying since you bravely took to your feet and beat a very brave retreat.

"Do or do not, there is no try."

"Yes, Master Yoda."

"Good man. I'm going out, gonna break my pledge. _Don't _wait up! Seriously, when I get back, you'd better be asleep, Punk!"

So just you and me, Sir Punk. Want to watch people getting touched by the power of the Lord?

Do you think they have to show the police that on a doll, Life? Show us on the doll, where did the Lord touch you?

You realise that you're laughing hysterically at a joke you told the voices in your head, Sir Punk. You should probably go and see someone about this.

"That was quick. Thought you were gone for the night." I was sure Drew would be getting another room; I don't think he can take another night of my shit. He must have forgotten something.

"C'mere." Oh fuck, I know that voice. Why is he here?

I would imagine because you're a fucking mess, brave Sir Punk and he's a fucking idiot.

* * *

Bonus points (and a one-shot - pm me or leave a note in your review, assuming you leave a review...) to the first person to guess what Life was paraphrasing.

As ever your comments and criticism are more than welcome.

**********agd888**: I'm so relieved it didn't disappoint! I can only hope Punk remains okay! :D Life is returning to be a massive asshole but that's kind of it's point. ;)

**littleone1389**: Well, Punk is not doing well... Kind of falling to bits on the inside really...

******alizabethianrose**: Classic Punk indeed! Avoid, avoid and fail to discuss... He's getting pinned down soon enough though. :D

**InYourHonour**: Yay! Your back! I was worried I lost you! :D (As I said in an earlier note, you were my first reviewer, your thoughts have a special place in my fic-writing heart)

**_Reviews keep me motivated to keep writing, so if you're interested in more please leave one, even if it's just Hey, that didn't suck, I'd be so far and beyond grateful. Heck even if you thought it did suck tell me too, something is better than nothing after all, think of it as an early Christmas present to one so far from anything truly Christmassy out here in China._**


	9. A Brief Moment of Clarity Broke Through

Colt Chapter: 2nd Person POV Warnings: Slash, profanity.

* * *

You open the door to the motel room with the key Drew gave you in the lobby, he told you to fix Punk, told you that he wasn't sure how much longer people would put up with him wasn't too sure _he_ could put up with Punk when he was like this. You didn't need to ask what _like this_ was, you can guess but you have no clue as to what you're going to do, really, the role of Punk whisperer is not something you expected to find yourself being charged with once more. You aren't sure what will happen, how this will play out, if he'll let you get close enough to fix him or if you even want to. The room is dark, the only light is the TV playing some kind of Southern Baptist show, Punk's lying on one of the two beds, his back turned to the door, the ugly blanket wrapped around him. You feel a twinge in your chest, at least you have one answer, you can't leave him like this, he _needs_ you and that thought still lights a fire in your belly.

"That was quick. Thought you were gone for the night." He snaps, assuming you're Drew no doubt.

"C'mere." You say softly, he turns so fast you're surprised he doesn't fall off the bed.

"Scott?" His voice is quiet, so very quiet you almost don't hear him. He clears his throat and sits up. "What are you doing here?" He's trying for cold and harsh but manages bewildered and miserable. You don't move, just stay by the door and spread your arms inviting him to you. If he won't come to you to talk about what he did, about the calamity between you, he will at least come to you for this but he has to make the decision, you won't force him to come, just make the offer to him.

"C'mere, Phil." He looks so very nervous as he stands and shuffles over to you. You envelope him in a hug, squeeze him as tightly as you can, feel his hands clutching at your shirt, his hair tickling your nose. You heart clenches in your chest, he feels so familiar, so good in your arms, this is what you've been missing these long months, no amount of work and distraction can replace him, his warmth, his scent, the feeling of holding him.

"Why are you here?" He asks, his voice muffled as he presses his face against your neck. You shake your head and hold him tightly. Any answer you give him won't be quite true; there are enough lies and half-truths between you so silence is the most honest thing you can give him. He doesn't press for an answer, just stands in your arms, trembling ever so slightly, and takes deep breaths from where his face is pressed against you, as if he's trying to breathe you in. One of your hands runs through his hair, limp and greasy, his thick beard feels curiously scratchy against your neck, you stand holding him for a long while, waiting for him to still, for his body to relax.

"Go shower." You say, stepping away from him as he looks at you, eyes wide, an almost panicked look in them. You manage a slight reassuring smile, you'll be there waiting for him when he's finished. You sit heavily on the bed, this is such a horribly bad idea, truly the worst thing you can think of doing but you know that it will happen, he needs you and you need him, just that taste of him in your arms has you craving more. You hate this grim connection between you both, your life would be so very much easier if you weren't bound to him, if you didn't care about him, didn't care that he was falling apart but you do, you care far too much.

"Still here?" He say softly when he comes back, water glistening on his skin, towel wrapped about his waist, he looks thinner, more like the pointy bastard you remember from the early days. He comes closer to you and you let him straddle your lap, let him kiss you, which was a horrible mistake, your hands tug him tighter to you, fist in his hair, your tongue tastes every corner of his mouth, savouring him. He makes that so very soft moan and breaks the kiss to rest his forehead against yours, that soft, sweet smile on his lips. You can't let him get the wrong idea; this isn't why you're here, not exactly. You're here to fix him, to make him sleep, you know he won't talk to you, know that there is no point in trying, if the calamity gets discussed it will be on his terms, you can't force his hand, that never works. You shift so that he's on his back on the bed and you stand; taking your shirt off and begin unbuckling your pants, he reaches for you, that devastatingly beautiful smile still on his lips.

"Wait." You tell him, he looks slightly confused as he lies on the bed, flat on his back, his hair splayed in dark tangled mess, skin damp and glistening, towel about his waist, staring up at you. "This time we're setting rules." You'd come to this decision on the way up here, you'd taken the stairs for this very reason, ten simple rules to establish a framework of what is and isn't okay between you, until he manages to screw his courage to the sticking place and comes to talk to you. He looks warily at you but nods. You shift your gaze from his eyes to his collar bone."Rule one: I am doing this as your _friend_. It's not about love," You ignore the voice in your head that is screaming at you, screaming that this is bullshit, that you love him, even though you can't begin to work out how to forgive him, you understand him, you love him, will likely love him for the rest of your life. You've had this argument with yourself a thousand times but you can't make a decision until you have all the facts and those are locked up inside Punk's stubborn head. "We tried being in love, that didn't work. What we were before, before it all got _messy_, that worked, we can stick to that." You're avoiding his eyes, you don't want to see the expression in them, you don't want to see relief, you certainly don't want to see pain in them, you just want to set the ground rules, hear him agree to them and sink inside his body, exhaust him so he falls asleep. "Rule two: Only in hotels, not my place, not at your place, only somewhere unimportant. Rule three: I won't stay the night. I'll stay till you're asleep then I'm gone. Rule four-," He's agreed so easily to everything so far, you're surprised. You chance a look further up him, stopping on his thin lips, the ring glinting in the light and your chest tightens, this isn't going to be as easy as you had hoped, you know those lips so well, know that the thin little line they're pressed into means one of two things, neither of them are good. You reach over to him to stroke his hair; he jerks his head away from your hand.

"Rule four: Don't touch my hair." He snaps, sitting up and tying back his hair in the band that had been lying on the bedside cabinet.

"Why? I thought you liked it when I stroked your hair." You ask him, your hand still pointlessly stretched out to touch him, your voice strangely hoarse.

"Rule one." The way he says it, it sounds so final that you finally dare to look at his eyes but they're blank, you don't think you've ever seen them look so expressionless. Punk's eyes aren't windows to his soul, they're fucking billboards that declare his feelings for those who can read them and you can read them so well but there's nothing there for you to interpret. He moves off the bed and fetches a bottle of lube from his bag. He throws it to you and you fumble the catch, dropping it onto the floor, where it skitters away from you, back towards the door you came in. You go to fetch it, turn back to see him on all fours on the bed, his head bowed between his arms, his face hidden from you, his hair a sad little tail on his back. He looks defeated but you aren't sure who or what he was fighting, you think that it was possibly himself but that's a thought for later. You stroke his flank, you've _never _taken him like this, it's always on his back so you can see his face, watch his eyes, see that kitten fluff soft smile. "Get on with it." His voice interrupts your thoughts, a sharp little angry snap of words.

"Rule five," You say softly, still stroking his skin, his soft, smooth skin. "Rule five: Don't rush me; I know what I'm doing." You do at least you know how to get him to sleep, how to wear out his body, what you're actually _doing_, that remains up in the air, this might be helping him short term but long term, where it really matters you have no idea. You can tire his body but his mind and that infinite well of stubbornness therein is another matter. You open the bottle of lube, coat your fingers and slowly ease one into his body. You heart clenches at how tight he is, how tight he _always _is but you know, well honestly _think_, someone else has been inside of him, that you're not the only person who has experienced this smothering heat. You stroke his back and thighs with the hand not busy prepping him.

"Rule six: don't fucking pet me; I'm not some fucking cat." You swallow, you know he likes having his skin stroked, know that he likes to be treated carefully, likes tenderness from you because he doesn't get it anywhere else, has never been used to being treated as though he was fragile and precious so revels in it, he won't treat himself carefully so always adored it from you but now he won't allow it. You won't argue with him though, he's accommodated your rules; you'll have to accommodate his, even if they won't help him in the least. "Rule seven: don't fucking kiss me again." You squeeze your eyes closed, nothing soft, nothing gentle. "Rule eight: use a fucking condom." You find yourself nodding at his back; you have to dampen down the urge to stoke his shoulder blades, to ease the tension in him. "Rule nine: only fucking, nothing else."

"Rule ten: let me help you." You interrupt his rant. "I'm your _friend_." How you hate that word, hate how pitifully trite it sounds to describe what was, what _is_ between you. You don't think that there's a word in any language to describe what you are to each other. "Let me help you, I know how so don't stop me." You add _to punish yourself_ in your head; you withdraw your fingers from inside of him and rest your forehead against one of his so very tense shoulders. He makes that familiar soft noise as you move to enter him when you remember rule eight. You open your mouth to ask him if he has any condoms, when you notice the little silver foil square on the bed, you open the packet and put it on, staring at his back. The urge to run your hand down his spine, to offer him some sort of comfort is almost overwhelming but if you want him to follow your rules, you'll have to follow his, at this stage you're honestly not sure which half of the ten is the most painful, his are more directly cruel, more obviously about denying things you both like, you both want but yours, their cruelty is more subtle, more nuanced, more viciously bitter. You pour more lube over your sheathed length and slide inside of his body. He makes the painfully familiar moan he always does when you enter him. You remain still inside of him, your hands on his hips, the urge to stroke his soft skin almost overwhelming, your forehead resting against his back; he's so tight, so wonderfully, perfectly tight around you. His breathing sounds soft and rapid, you close your eyes and picture his face, picture how his eyes would be hazy and beautiful, his face flushed, lips parted, the little ring glinting in the dull light. You ache to kiss him, even to press your lips to the skin of his shoulders but you don't know how far rule seven extends. You move slowly within him, rocking your hips back and forth at a steady pace, him gasping softly at ever thrust you make. It feels good, it always feels good but this hurts, being with him and not being _with_ him hurts more than you think you can handle. "Can I touch you?" You ask him softly, you're getting closer and closer to your own end; you want to make sure you can feel him coming undone around you when you do finally come.

"I." He starts, he's going to deny you, you can tell.

"Let me help you." You say softly, your lips against the skin of his back in the parody of a kiss. His head bows down further and you take that as tacit acquiescence.

"Okay." Follows softly confirming his consent. You wrap one hand around his cock, finding him already hard. You stroke him at the same pace as your thrusts, wrapping your other arm around his waist drawing him back against you when you press forward. He comes swiftly, his body trembling in your arms. You wrap the arm with the hand that had been stroking around his waist also, your weight resting almost fully on him. You come with your forehead resting against his shoulder blade, your arms tight about his waist, holding him to you, like the very last thing you want to do is let go but he makes an oddly irritated noise and you pull out of his body carefully, remove the condom, knot it and throw in the trash in the bathroom. You stand in the doorway and stare at him; he's gotten under the covers of the bed and is lying on his side once more, curled up in a miserable little ball, so much like the night he left you alone in your apartment. "I thought you were staying till I fall asleep." His voice has a horrific hollow quality to it; you close your eyes and scrub your face with one hand. Rule three: I won't stay the night. You pull your boxers back on and get in bed. You lay behind him, staring at his shoulders as he lies curled up in that tight little ball, if you want him to sleep well you should hold him, should wrap your arms around him like when you first entered the room, when he was trembling with confused excitement. You lay as close to him as you can without touching him but you can feel his body heat, can see the tension in him. You lay one arm over his waist, you don't move it even when he tense further, just let it lie there as a solid reminder of your presence, resisting the urge to draw him closer, to stroke him, to offer him the comfort he needs but won't let himself have. Eventually, he relaxes slightly, he straightens his legs, you can feel his toes wriggling near your shin, his habit of wriggling them just before he goes to sleep is oddly endearing, he sinks towards sleep, his breathing slowing and deepening, his toes cease their squirming. When you're certain he's asleep you move closer, press yourself along his back, let your legs tangle with his, press soft kisses to his hair, revel in his presence, indulge in stroking the soft skin of his abdomen. You hope so badly that he doesn't keep this up for long, if not for his sake; even though you're certain that he won't be able to take this much longer, then for yours. Sleeping with him like this, just doing this once, being denied him fully, being denied falling asleep with his head on your chest, being denied _your smile_, even by yourself, even just once is more than you can take.

* * *

**********littleone1389**: Punk screwed up but really, I don't think Colt is making it any better to be honest. :) Life is hard on Punk but to be fair that is the point of Life. :D

**********agd888**: Poor Punk... I'm not sure he'd take a a slap too well! :D I hope Colt doesn't disappoint. :)

******alizabethianrose**: Well he helped him sleep... not sure if it was a very helpful way he did it though.

So yeah, the _talk_ got postponed to a later chapter... Gentlemen if you would like to stop stalling, any time now, we're running out of album here, chaps... :S

**_Reviews keep me motivated to keep writing, so if you're interested in more please leave one, even if it's just Hey, that didn't suck, I'd be so far and beyond grateful. Heck even if you thought it did suck tell me too, something is better than nothing after all, think of it as an early Christmas present to one so far from anything truly Christmassy out here in China._**


	10. Ring Rust

Punk chapter: 1 person PoV Warnings: Slash, Profanity and a slow clambering out of mild madness.

* * *

Sir Punk, what are you doing?

Making a list.

I see we're going for the more traditional list making tools of a pen and paper, this time.

_**RULES**_

_"Rule one: I am doing this as your friend. It's not about love."_

_**RULE 1: I don't love you.**_

_"Rule two: Only in hotels, not my place, not at your place, only somewhere unimportant."_

_**RULE 2: I don't fuck whores at home.**_

_"Rule three: I won't stay the night. I'll stay till you're asleep then I'm gone."_

_**RULE 3: I'm not sharing a bed with a whore.**_

_"Rule four: Don't touch my hair."_

_**RULE 4: DON'T FUCKING TOUCH MY HAIR!**_

_"Rule five: Don't rush me; I know what I'm doing."_

_**RULE 5: Let me enjoy my whore.**_

_"Rule six: don't fucking pet me; I'm not some fucking cat."_

_**RULE 6: NOT A FUCKING CAT!**_

_"Rule seven: don't fucking kiss me again."_

_**RULE 7: DON'T KISS WHORES!**_

_"Rule eight: use a fucking condom."_

_**RULE 8: YOU NEVER KNOW WHAT YOU MIGHT CATCH!**_

_"Rule nine: only fucking, nothing else."_

_**RULE 9: FUCK YOUR WHORE!**_

_"Rule ten: let me help you."_

_**RULE 10:?**_

You seem to be having a spot of bother with number ten there, Sir Punk.

_Let me help you_, the fuck does he want to do that for? Fucking idiot.

Rule one perhaps, Sir Punk? _I am doing this as your friend__?_ So are we going to read the note he left or are we going to keep ignoring it?

I-

Read it, Sir Punk.

_**Punk,**_

There's an awful lot of scribbling out here, Sir Punk, hold it up to the TV, see what he didn't want to say.

_I know you don't want to talk about this but we should, I need to know so much from you, I need to understand. I need to know why._

_I miss you. I need you. I love you. _

An idiot, he's an _idiot_.

_**Don't let it get this bad again!**_

_**REMEMBER RULE 10!**_

_**Colt**_

Well at least we agree on that, Sir Punk. He is an idiot and so are you.

_"I, uh, are you in the same city as me?"_

Really, Sir Punk, calling him to beg him to come fuck you to sleep.

Rule ten. He wants to help me so bad, he can help me sleep, I'm sick of listening to you.

_"What hotel you in?"_

"How do we work this? Do I call you up? Make an appointment?" Oh stop looking at me like that, you're the one who made these rules, you're the one who couldn't just leave well enough alone. You could have stayed away but you didn't. Don't look so fucking miserable.

"I dunno, I guess a room number and a hotel is alls I need, really." No kissing!

Technically, Sir Punk, rubbing his nose against yours isn't kissing, technically.

"A number and a place?" Fuck technicalities, he can get on with it, I'm tired.

I know, Sir Punk and unlike you, I am aware just what it is you're tired of.

"A number and a place, Punk." I wish he wouldn't do that.

What, Sir Punk? I thought you wanted him to fuck you to sleep.

Talk against my back, it-

It's as close to a kiss as your oh so reasonable rules allow, Sir Punk. If you will recall his scribbled out not.

_SHUT UP! SCRIBBLED OUT FOR A FUCKING REASON! _

_Room 307, Heron Hotel. - sent 00:14_

Doesn't this undermine your whole I don't need him and his ten-count rant, Sir Punk?

_Room 312, Lakeview. - sent 23:48_

I can't deal with this on my own, okay.

_Room 333, Icicle Inn- sent 01:02_

You think meeting up; fucking in random hotels is the answer, Sir Punk?

_Room 212, The Bannered Mare. - sent 00:48_

This is helping, he was right. What we were before, it works, we just need to stick to this.

_Room 294, Gateway Inn. - sent 23:15_

Sir Punk, will you please talk to him.

_Room 489, Ocean View. - sent 01:13_

Phil, this is getting ridiculous, how many times are you going to do this? How many times are you going to play the whore? TALK TO HIM!

_Room 448, Ultra Luxe - sent 00:01_

I can't. I don't know what to say.

"Shit, Punk man, I am so sorry!"

"Its fine, Rey, don't worry about it."

"You're bleeding a hell of a lot though, man."

"It's fine, don't worry." Thirteen staples, thirteen, fuck this hurts.

Well, Sir Punk, at least you're getting to go under the hood for a while and feuding with Kane, that will be fun, huh?

"Did you burst your staples?"

"Uh, yeah, I think so. Sorry Doc."

"Go home, Punk. I'll tell them you need a few days to heal. Go home, go sleep, nothing strenuous."

"Yes, sir."

_I know we're in Chicago but I need you. I'll pay for a hotel. - sent 23:37_

_Come to my place. - Colt Cabana 23:40_

Go to his place? The fuck?

Are we going, Sir Punk?

"Hey, come in." Nothing looks different; everything looks the same as when I left.

Sneaked out, Sir Punk.

Shut up.

"Sit down, Punk. You look like you're gonna fall over."

"New sofa?"

"Yeah."

"What happened to the old one?"

"It, uh, it died." Died huh? So why am I here? Rule two clearly states no fucking in important places and your apartment is important. "You gonna take that off?"

"The hat? No." The hat is staying firmly on; I'm not sitting around bald-headed and woolly-chinned in your fucking apartment without knowing why the fuck I'm here. Alls I wanted was to sleep; I'd have even paid for the hotel.

Perhaps all this time, I've been wrong, Sir Punk, perhaps you're the john and he's the whore.

"C'mere."

"What the fuck do you think you're doing, gimme that back." And stop dragging me down to your lap,

"Sleep Punk, no sex, nothing, just sleep. Rule ten, Punk." Sleep I can do but this, this isn't in your rules, idiot.

I'm quite sure that lying with your head in his lap is against your rules too, Sir Punk. What about rule four?

Don't have any hair for him to stroke, so fuck you.

"How many are there?"

"Staples? Thirteen." Don't fucking go near them; they hurt like a bitch and keep fucking bleeding.

"Hmm, go to sleep Punk." This is nice, I miss his lap, he's comfy.

Sir Punk, take his advice, go to sleep, you sound like a girl.

"Hey, you hungry?" I fell asleep? Still tired, sleeping now. "Or go back to sleep, Punkers, that works too."

See I told you this system was working; we even manage to talk to each other. I have no fucking idea what an algorithm is though, if we're gonna keep talking podcasts I'm gonna need to learn.

I'm impressed, Sir Punk. You're both as fucking stupid as each other. He wants to ta-

We are talking! We talk lots; we talk about all sorts of things!

He wants to _talk_ to you but knows you're a fucking pussy who'll run and you, Sir Punk, take advantage of the fact that he's a fucking idiot who is in love with you.

Shut up. There's no evidence he loves me-

He wrote it on a no-

He scribbled it out on a note. He has no reason to be in love with me.

You fucked up, Sir Punk, you and everyone else, often do.

I always fuck up.

You do realise that this arrangement isn't making anything better, it's delaying the inevitable, eventually he'll grow a set.

And then I'll find a new way to sleep.

You'll run from him again?

He'll grow a set and tell me to fuck off.

Sir Punk, he loves you.

He'll get over it, everyone does.

Alright, say he gets over being in love. What about you?

What about me?

What will you do when he doesn't love you, when you've only got yourself to rely on?

I'll work hurt.

_Do you remember the conversation we had the other week? - Colt Cabana 07:46_

_The podcast one? - sent 07:50_

_That's the one. - Colt Cabana 07:59_

_Do you remember it? - Colt Cabana 08:00_

_Are you going to tell me what this is about? - sent 08:03_

_Will you be on it? - Colt Cabana 08:26_

_What? - sent 08:29_

_My podcast! - Colt Cabana 08:33_

_When? - 08:36_

_Next week? - Colt Cabana 08:59_

_Sure. Come to my place, Ace can give you directions. - Sent 09:01_

* * *

**littleone1389**: This is how it all worked out, I think Punk is mostly angry with himself to be honest, he'd no desire in running an alternative track to nine. Life, it appears would agree with you, Punk on the other hand seems pretty happy with the arrangement...

**alizabethianrose**: Unpleasant conversations scheduled for next chapter, Colt seems keen, Punk not so much.

**agd888**: "like watching a car crash in slow motion" is the _BEST_ description of this! And exactly what I was aiming for! :D Your review made me SO happy! :D

**InYourHonour**: Difficult indeed but what relationship isn't? :D

As ever, I hope this didn't disappoint; comments and criticism on characterisation is so welcome, Punk feels rather like he's slipping away from me here. And yes, all the hotels are from video games.

**_Reviews keep me motivated to keep writing, so if you're interested in more please leave one, even if it's just Hey, that didn't suck, I'd be so far and beyond grateful. Heck even if you thought it did suck tell me too, something is better than nothing after all, think of it as a virtual Christmas present to one so far from anything truly Christmassy out here in China._**


	11. Slowly Began to Turn into Dust

Warnings: 2nd Person Colt POV, Slash, profanity.

* * *

After that first night in the hotel, after you first established the rules, you honestly didn't know if he would listen to the note, you'd left him. You tried to write the damn thing a dozen times, scoring out everything you wanted to say to leave a rather pitiful scrawl in place of the truth.

_**Punk,**_

_**Don't let it get this bad again!**_

_**REMEMBER RULE 10!**_

_**Colt**_

Rule ten, _let me help you_, the only rule you actually care about, the only rule that actually services any kind of purpose. Alls you want to do is to help him, to love him, to make him realise that you do. You're torn as to whether or not you want him to let you help him under the provisions of the rules, though. On one hand, you want him to have respect for both himself and you, to not allow your _relationship_ to be reduced to this kind of arrangement; on the other hand, you want him, any way you can have him. The second time, he calls you, asks how the process will work. You almost want to laugh at the idea of making appointments, as though he was asking when you could fit him in, as if he doesn't know that you would and do drop everything for him. You know it's pitiful that you wait for those little text messages, the room number and the hotel name, it's downright shameful how happy they make you. He needs you, even if it's only the rest you can give his body, it's something, something is just barely better than nothing. You feel horribly like a prostitute, going to him when he texts, fucking him, making sure he's asleep and then leaving.

Leaving is getting at once harder and easier, the urge, the _need_ you have to hold him, to run your fingers through his hair, to stroke his skin, it never fades but the reflex of not acting on it is getting stronger. The pain of not seeing him smile at you after he comes is softening each time you come with your forehead against his back. You're getting better at resisting him, the allure of what you once had with him but it never goes away not fully. It's simply resistance, the urge, the need you have to be with him, it lurks in the back of your mind constantly. When you've come, when he's asleep you give in and you wrap your arms around him, hold him close to your chest, kiss his shoulders, stroke the skin of his stomach, leaving then seems like an impossibility. You stay longer and longer each time, laying awake listening to him breathing, feeling his body warm and relaxed in your arms. You often wonder what would happen if he woke up whilst you did this. Would he simply go back to sleep, would he twist in your arms and let you kiss him or would he tense up and throw you out, cut himself off from you for good? You think that maybe that would be the best thing for you, a clean break from him, he'd adapt to not having you there for him, he's a survivor but it would destroy you. You've always thought of yourself as his shield, his sanctuary but the reality of the matter is, you provide a service for him, one if he looked you're certain he could find almost anywhere. For you he provides a necessity, you need him to feel like yourself. His texts when they come fill you with hope, the hope that this will be the time you get your explanation; this will be the time he'll tell you why. Each time you don't get to talk to him, each time it becomes a little more clinical, a little more practiced, each time you feel a little more like his whore.

_I know we're in Chicago but I need you. I'll pay for a hotel. - CM Punk 23:37_

His message surprises you; you'd been half dozing on the sofa half staring at the TV when it arrived.

_Come to my place. - sent 23:40_

You send the invitation without really thinking about it. You'd seen the PPV, you'd seen the match he phoned in with Kane, saw how tired he looked, how he kept checking his head. Sex isn't something that he needs from you right now, what he needs is to rest, to sleep, at least by not agreeing to meet him in a hotel should make it obvious to him that sex isn't on the agenda.

"Hey, come in." He arrives too soon in your opinion, you'd wanted longer to get ready for him being in your place. He looks awful, pale, shaky almost, as though he's only upright through sheer force of will. "Sit down, Punk. You look like you're gonna fall over." He's staring at the sofa, the new one is an ugly shade of brown but at least the cushions match it better.

"New sofa?" HIs voice sounds odd, slightly hoarse.

"Yeah." He takes a seat on one end and you the other.

"What happened to the old one?" A good question, you aren't sure if you should explain that you destroyed it in a fit of rage, rage the like of which you're sure you've never felt before or not.

"It, uh, it died." As far as cop-out answers go, it's at least honest. "You gonna take that off?" You gesture to the cubs cap on his head, you want to see the damage, see what they've done to him in the name of entertainment.

"The hat? No." He tugs it a little lower. For all his claiming to lack vanity, his appearances is something he is curiously cautious with, you're not sure if it's the baldness he's hiding or his injury, either way, you're not letting him hide behind his cap.

"C'mere."

"What the fuck do you think you're doing, gimme that back." You pick the hat from his head and wrap an arm around his shoulders, pulling him to rest his head in your lap.

"Sleep Punk, no sex, nothing, just sleep. Rule ten, Punk." Rule ten is a great and terrible thing but it gives you the excuse to soothe him. Just as he was hiding behind that cap, you hide behind it, you could argue for the removal of all of his rules under ten, his are counter-productive to rule ten but then so are yours, if you're honest there should only be one rule and that is rule ten. You carefully stroke his scalp, the area around the staples, red and a little swollen, they look painful. "How many are there?"

"Staples? Thirteen." His voice is already softer; he's so tired he's already falling asleep.

"Hmm, go to sleep Punk." You keep stroking his skin gently, missing his hair but enjoying the odd sensation of stroking the soft, smooth skin of his scalp instead. He sleeps for maybe an hour before he squirms, trying to turn in your lap to face your stomach, which would be a bad idea, he'd be lying on the staples so you shake him awake gently. "Hey, you hungry?" He blinks up at you sleepily, yawns and goes right back to sleep. "Or go back to sleep, Punkers, that works too." You let him sleep in your lap all night, spending your time stroking his skin, flicking through TV stations and dozing. It was a painful night for you, one that won't leave you, no matter how many more text messages he sends you that are nothing but a room number and a hotel.

It surprises you when he sends you a harmless little text, some odd little observation on the city where he's staying. It makes your heart clench and you put off replying for a few hours, eventually managing to cobble together something halfway to reasonable. Since that first time, you're talking to each other more, like you're almost friends again, a text here and there, a very rare phone call, in amongst the messages that are nothing but a number and a place.

You don't make the decision to ask him to be on the podcast lightly. You thought it over and over and over. There are a hundred other people you could ask to help you with this, people who don't come with all the painful, horrible tragedy that there is between you and Punk but the World will expect you to have him on, will be surprised when he isn't first up. Things are getting better between you, better is perhaps the wrong word, there's a band-aid over the gaping wound between you and you're both carefully ignoring it so you brave asking him.

_Will you be on it? - sent 08:26_

_What? - CM Punk 08:29_

_My podcast! - sent 08:33_

_When? - CM Punk 08:36_

_Next week? - sent 08:59_

_Sure. Come to my place, Ace can give you directions. - CM Punk 09:01_

He wants you to go to his place, he's inviting you to his home, it sounds much more important than it should, you think. This current relationship has apparently developed enough for you to know each other's addresses, not that you've moved though.

_Where's Punk's place? - sent 09:10_

_ASK HIM YOURSELF. - Ace 09:15_

_He told me to ask you. - sent 09:19_

_HAVEN'T YOU SORTED THIS OUT YET? - Ace 09:26_

_Maybe he thinks we don't talk enough, Ace. :) - sent 09:49_

_YOU TWO ARE FUCKING CHILDREN! - Ace 09:51_

Eventually Ace sends you the address and it surprises you. He's been so close along, so close you could walk there easily, so close you could be there before you have time to think if it's a good idea or not.

Your first thought, on entering his house, is that it's too big and too expensive for him. This isn't the sort of place where you can see him being happy and you keep that thought till you see his view, the bay, your city spread out before you, this place seems perfect for him all of a sudden. The _interview_ went smoothly enough; you've both had plenty of practice at convincing the World that there isn't any discordance between you after all. If over the twenty months you spent playing that ridiculous game of kayfabe and managing to fool everyone, apart from Ace apparently, isn't enough practice, you aren't sure what will be.

You switch off the recording equipment and chance a glance at him, he's sprawled on his sofa, one arm along the back of it, stroking the ugly blanket, its presence in his surprisingly tasteful place confuses you, of all the things to take from your apartment, why he'd take that ugly blanket is beyond you.

"Is there anything else you need to ask me?" His voice is strangely quiet, his eyes focused on the view outside of his window.

"Why?" You blurt it out without thought, you want to be able to go back in time and stop yourself from saying that, he looks at you, a hint of betrayal in his eyes.

"Why what?" He grabs the ugly blanket from the back of the sofa and wraps it around himself.

"Why did you fuck someone else?" You know you sound horribly bitter. He laughs and shakes his head, you feel anger creeping up on you but you dampen it down. You earned the right to answers from him years ago and you don't think you've lost your right to hear them, he'll at least give you something, you think.

"Why?" He glances down at the recording equipment, you shake your head, you've enough for the podcast, enough fake joviality and twee chitchat between old friends for the wrestling community to hear, this is personal, this is for your ears only. "Why ask? Doesn't make any difference."

"Because, I want to know, I _need_ to know." He sighs and shakes his head once more.

"But it doesn't matter, I did it and that's that."

"Punk." You're pleading with him now, you know you are, staring at him with pleading eyes; you just want an answer, even if it's not one you'll like it'll be better than nothing.

"I wanted to hurt you." He snaps, his eyes hard, glaring back at you. "You were too fucking busy, too fucking worried about yourself to care for me and I'm a selfish asshole so I fucked someone else to hurt you." You'd suspected that might be the answer but to hear him say is worse than you thought it would be. "You happy now? You have your answer."

"Who?" You have no idea why you asked that, it really doesn't matter at all. He starts laughing, genuinely amused laughter. You stand, uncertain of why you're on your feet.

"Jeff Hardy." That was not the answer you were expecting. You were expecting some random faceless nobody, some woman from the back but Hardy; he worked with Hardy, feuded with him. It dawns on you how vicious those promos were, it suddenly makes so much more sense to you. How typical of Punk, rather than face his problems, he runs away from them and places blame on the wrong party. This whole Straight Edge Society thing is probably something to do with this whole mess too, something that _he's_ created, crafted, formed and maintained, evidence to himself that he doesn't need you. "So any more fucking stupid questions?"

"You could have talked to me." You say, retaking your seat.

"I didn't." He snaps, pulling the blanket tighter around himself. "I fucked up so I left; it seemed like the most reasonable thing to do."

"The easiest thing to do." You sound horribly bitter. "You always do that, cut and run when things don't go your way."

"I." He starts to talk and then stops, snaps his mouth closed and shakes his head. "Why haven't you? I gave you a clean break." You expected him to have lost his temper by now but instead he sounds so soft and defeated. A clean break, that's how he sees running away, is it?

"That wasn't a clean break." You snap and fold your arms across your chest.

"Maybe not but you didn't have to come to my hotel room that night." He half-looks at you, his eyes narrowed. You sigh; this isn't how you'd envisaged this conversation going. You aren't sure if you'd imagined it having more resolution or what but you're certain your own ideas for it featured a lot less of you justifying yourself to him."I know what I get out this arrangement and I'm grateful but what about you? You don't get anything out of dealing with my shit." His voice is wry and full of self-mockery. You scrub a hand over your face, what do you get out of this mess? You aren't certain you get anything but more pain, you get glimpse of what you want but you're denied it, by yourself, by him, by common sense. You should walk away, this mess of a man and the calamity between you does nothing to help you but you love him. "Tell me what you want out of this?" You almost laugh, _out of this_ is almost exactly what you want but you meet his eyes, look at him, his hair still shorn, his beard far too long, he looks like a bad Charles Manson impersonator and yet, there is nothing you want more than to kiss him. Love makes you fucking stupid.

"I want rid of a rule." You say softly, he raises an eyebrow, you hope that he'll accept; it's a simple thing to ask for after all. You know it's entirely avoiding the point he was trying to make but you think you can use this to your advantage.

"Which rule?" His eyes are narrowed, distrusting, you wonder which rule he thinks you want to repeal. It should be obvious you think there's only one of his rules he's justified, only one rule he made explicit for his choosing.

"Rule four."

The day Drew was future endeavoured, he sent you a text asking if you knew of anyone who might be interested in him, you sent him a few numbers and waited for a text from Punk. With Drew gone, that is the end of his S.E.S. the final nail in the coffin and he'll be waiting for creative to tell him what he's up to next. His text comes maybe two hours after Drew's.

_Where are you? - CM Punk 18:55_

You have no idea how to answer him, your relationship hasn't changed all that much despite the almost conversation, he seems so very convinced that the arrangement works, no matter how much you disagree. He did concede to your request though, you're permitted to stroke his slowly growing hair, which more often than not progresses to neck stroking, then shoulder, you get away with an awful lot really but never a kiss, he never permits you to kiss him and that still burns. You reply to him eventually, tell him the name of the city you're in and get nothing back. Maybe an hour later, your phone rings.

_"They're sending me to Raw."_ You weren't expecting him to call, he sounds pissed, unbelievably irritated about being drafted to the best-known wrestling show in the World. _"They don't have any fucking thing for me. They want me to be someone's fucking TV program!"_

"Punk." You try to interrupt him, to try to calm him down.

_"I am C. M. PUNK!"_

"Punk!"

_"I AM NOT ANYONE'S TV PROGRAM!"_

"Punkers!" He falls silent, you hear him mutter something but it's too low and soft for you to catch. "Calm down, you're not where you'd like to be, okay but at least you're on TV, good TV. It could be worse."

_"Oh! It does, guess whose TV program, I am? John 'Super' Cena's." _He sounds utterly livid still but at least he isn't screaming in your ear.

"Cena's high-profile, that's pretty good, Punk." You try to keep your voice even.

_"Super Cena, Colt! You're talking to this sesaon's Mr Ham'n'Egger."_ His anger finally appears to be abating and when was the last time he called you Colt? When was the last you were anything, you can't recall the last time he's said your name, any of them, to you. It occurs to you suddenly what had quietened him, _Punkers_, the last time you'd called him that was when he was essentially asleep on your lap at your apartment back in May but you'd be surprised if he remembered that, before May, it was probably when you were still _together_.

"Come visit me the day after Raw." You tell him, he makes an agreeing noise.

_"Where will you be?" _His voice soft and quiet.

"I'll text you. A number and place is alls you need."

* * *

The long awaited talk may not see as resolve-y as I made out BUT this is intended as a trilogy piece so yeah, there's that. The end is actually incredibly close, two maybe three chapters left. I hope you enjoyed. As ever comments, questions, criticism are ALWAYS welcomed.

**littleone1389**: Colt is always a little too soft on Punk, I think and Life is trying to be helpful... it's just not very good at that... (Don't worry Punk, in theory, is getting himself sorted next chapter)

**alizabethianrose**: You can punch Life, repeatedly even, just make sure I get it back, I need for a plot device! ;)

**agd888**: Light at the end of the tunnel = yes The End of the tunnel = very close! :D

**Punk'sGirl**: I do enjoy the conversations Punk has with himself, writing Life is more fun than it should be. :) Well, I hope it didn't disappoint! :D

**_Reviews keep me motivated to keep writing, hangovers don't, so if you're interested in more please leave one, even if it's just Hey, that didn't suck, I'd be so far and beyond grateful and it'll give me a reason to say NO to K-TV. Heck even if you thought it did suck tell me too, something is better than nothing after all._**


	12. Handicap Match

Punk chapter: 1 person PoV Warnings: Slash, Profanity.

* * *

"Is there anything else you need to ask me?"

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why did you fuck someone else?" Oh really? _Really,_ that's the most important thing you have to ask me.

"Why?" I can't tell you that, it's petty, it's childish, it's-

Entirely you, Sir Punk?

"Why ask? Doesn't make any difference."

"Because, I want to know, I need to know." No, no, no, you _really_ don't.

"But it doesn't matter, I did it and that's that." That's all there is to it, I fucked someone else, I told you and I left you, that should have been the end of _this_.

"Punk." Don't look at me like that, nothing I say is going to make this better, don't you get that? This is a fucking mess, it was always going to be a fucking mess and you should have taken the opportunity to leave when it was given to you, idiot.

"I wanted to hurt you. You were too fucking busy, too fucking worried about yourself to care for me and I'm a selfish asshole so I fucked someone else to hurt you. You happy now? You have your answer."

"Who?" Oh? You gonna smack me or leave? Go ahead pick one, _pussy_.

"Jeff Hardy. So any more fucking stupid questions?" Really? You just sit down; be a fucking man, idiot! Fucking do something about this, don't just sit there and look at me like you fucking understand, like you fucking think that you could _forgive_ me.

"You could have talked to me." Oh, really? I could have? When? When _you_ were busy getting shit-faced in FCW or when _I_ was busy getting fucked?

"I didn't." I could of and I didn't, you know what, I'm not sure I regret that I didn't. "I fucked up so I left; it seemed like the most reasonable thing to do."

_Brave_ Sir Punk, he bravely runs away.

"The easiest thing to do. You always do that, cut and run when things don't go your way." Don't you fucking take Life's side!

It _is_ your modus operandi, Sir Punk.

"I." No, _enough_ about me, I'm so fucking _sick_ of me. What about you, idiot. "Why haven't you? I gave you a clean break." I left, you could have moved on, done anything you wanted.

"That wasn't a clean break." The hell it wasn't, there's no point in this conversation, nothing is going to be resolved.

Because you're a coward, Sir Punk.

"Maybe not but you didn't have to come to my hotel room that night." You should have stayed away; you knew what would happen, the same shit that _always_ happens when you come to me.

The same, Sir Punk? I'm sure there's usually a lot more kissy-faces and cuddling.

"I know what I get out this arrangement and I'm grateful but what about you? You don't get anything out of dealing with my shit." You just get more of my shit, shit that I need you to handle because I'm too fucked to deal with it. "Tell me what you want out of this?" If you're too fucking stupid to walk away, you have to get something out of this, idiot.

"I want rid of a rule." A rule?

Want to take bets on which one, Sir Punk? My money's on number eight.

Five? Six, nine, seven? I don't know, just not _ten_, don't let him take that from me.

"Which rule?"

"Rule four." Why?

Well, Sir Punk, remember:

_"Rule four: Don't touch my hair." _

_"Why? I thought you liked it when I stroked your hair." _

_"Rule one."_

And what was rule one again? Ah yes: _"Rule one: I am doing this as your friend. It's not about love."_ It would seem he's oh so subtly repealing two for the price of one. Clever boy, that idiot of yours.

Shut up, shut up, shut up, just shut up.

"If that's what you want, it doesn't seem like much."

"It's what I want." _Idiot_.

There is nothing much fair in life, watching my Straight Edge Society crumble down around me, my baby, my creation, that isn't _fair_.

Nothing _is_ fair, Sir Punk, you roll with the punches or punch walls, that works.

This was working perfectly till they stuck their _creative_ noses in, I was their _top_ heel and what did they, what are they doing with it, nothing! Nothing at all, they release my stable, they stick me in feuds that aren't going anywhere, what's the fucking point in this?

Well your contract is up in the summer, Sir Punk. Leave. If you're so unhappy with them, leave them, it's what you do best after all; cut and run.

Fuck you, fuck this.

_Where are you? - sent 18:55_

Fuck! Too fucking far away.

What are you doing, Sir Punk.

RULE TEN!

"They're sending me to Raw. They don't have any fucking thing for me, they want me to be someone's fucking TV program!" A TV program like I was still fucking green! I've paid my dues, I am _better_ than this!

_"Punk."_

"I am C. M. PUNK!" BETTER THAN THE MAJORITY OF THE SACKS OF SHIT THEY HAVE IN THE BACK!

_"Punk!"_

"I AM NOT ANYONE'S TV PROGRAM!" I WAS THEIR TOP FUCKING HEEL AND WHAT DO THEY DO WITH ME? NOTHING! THEY LET ME SPUTTER OUT LIKE A FUCKING CANDLE!

_"Punkers!"_

"Huh? _Punkers_? I."

Brave Sir Punk, you're an idiot. Stop spacing out and pay attention, he's still talking.

_"Calm down, you're not where you'd like to be, okay but at least you're on TV, good TV. It could be worse."_

"Oh! It does, guess whose TV program, I am? John 'Super' Cena's."

_"Cena's high-profile, that's pretty good, Punk."_

"Super Cena, _Colt_! You're talking to this season's Mr Ham'n'Egger." They're gonna fucking bury me! I can't take _another _burial.

"Come visit me the day after Raw."

"Where will you be?"

_"I'll text you. A number and place is alls you need."_

"A number and a place? I, okay, Tuesday."

_"Enjoy the pay per view. I'll see you Tuesday."_

A number and a place, brave Sir Punk, _this_ is what you're reduced to, seeking comfort and solace in a number and a place.

Shut up, I'll take what I can get and be grateful. If the idiot wants to offer me _comfort and solace_, I'll take it, now just shut up. I've a pay per view to get ready for and my big exciting return to Raw, where I'll do nothing but get beaten by Super Cena.

You never know maybe they'll let you work Bryan.

Maybe, fine I'll get beaten by Super Cena or Dragon.

And get fucked in hotel rooms because you're a fucking coward, Sir Punk.

I'm not. This _arrangement_ works. We don't work together, we don't work apart, this _works_.

This is nothing _but_ a work, Sir Punk. Make a decision.

I have.

This isn't a decision, this is limbo, either chose to try and make things work or walk away. Don't keep plodding along in this ridiculous status quo.

What are we talking about? My job or him?

Both, I suppose. Are you happy with either?

No, yes, maybe. I don't know.

Just choose, make a decision.

I have till July seventeenth. My contract's up then.

It's October, Sir Punk, you're giving yourself a big window to make a decision.

It's an important one; it'll take time to decide.

And in the meantime?

In the meantime, I have a pay per view to go wrestle.

* * *

_**Happy Hogmanay! May your 2014 be an awesome one! **_

_The end is incredibly close, two chapters left (unless we go into the bonus Japanese track and at this rate we might). I hope you enjoyed it! As ever comments, questions, criticism, disapproving glares and reviews are ALWAYS welcomed._

**littleone1389**: I think he's doing surprisingly well... (kind of, maybe.) Lemme know what you think !;)

**agd888**: The "talk" that was really more of a non-talk... it was an obvious thing that nothing was going to be resolved. :D Hope this one doesn't disappoint!

**alizabethianrose**: You did mention it in a PM. :) I fear the advice of Ace _may_ fall on deaf ears or at least the wrong ones... If you feel the need to smack Life again (and you might) remember to return it mostly undamaged, I need it still. ;)

**_Reviews and apparently feeling like I'm dying of the cold keep me motivated to write, hangovers don't, so if you're interested in more please leave one, even if it's just Hey, that didn't suck, I'd be so far and beyond grateful and it'll give me a reason to say NO to K-TV. Heck even if you thought it did suck tell me too, something is better than nothing after all. :D_**


	13. Like Sunlight Through The Shutters

Warnings: 2nd Person Colt POV, Slash, smut, profanity.

* * *

"You're hurt?" You ask him as he limps into your hotel room and stops just inside. He looks hurt and tired, so painfully tired. You close the door and move to stand in front of him.

"My hip." He says and you stroke his short hair gently, are grateful that you're allowed to offer him this sliver of comfort. You miss the length from before, you miss being able to run your fingers through it but the way his eyes drift closed and he leans into your hand as it moves over the shorter strands is enjoyable enough to make up for it.

"What happened?" You saw the match, saw what happened and really you think he should be in a hospital or lying down or something other than limping to your hotel room but in your mind you may have blown the injury out of proportion still the limping makes you worry.

"It's nothing and not why I'm here. I'm tired, fuck me." He says it so causally as though it means nothing to him; you stare at his back as he takes his coat off and tosses it onto the chair in the corner of the room.

"Punk, you can't stay the night here." He can't, you might be rooming by yourself but it's against the rules, having him agree to repeal one rule has made things harder. You want them all gone, yours, his, every stupid regulation you agreed on, cast aside in favour of having whatever he'll give you of himself, no matter how small it is, you'll take it. The only rule you need is ten, you want to help him, to take care of him, even if it is for increasingly selfish reasons. So you have to force yourself to ensure that you adhere to the other rules, you're certain if you didn't keep reminding yourself of them, you'd throw them away and you worry that the only reason he asks you to come to him is because he knows there are rules, a framework governing what is expected from you both.

"I'm not _staying_. Just fuck me." He's yanks his shirt over his head as he talks. You cross the room and stop, what you want to do is wrap your arms around him, kiss him, hold him as he sleeps and then drag his stupid ass to a hospital tomorrow morning but you can't. You sigh and scrub your face; this calamity just keeps getting messier and messier. He's fully naked and gingerly rubbing his hip before you're really aware of it.

"You're gonna have to lie on your back." You know it's the truth but the idea doesn't make you happy, taking him on his back will be too much like how it used to be, how it _should_ be but on his hands and knees will put too much pressure on his hip, it'll hurt him more than he already is and you won't let that happen. He scowls at you but nods, clearly having deduced the same thing. He lies down and stares at you, the weight of his gaze is almost more that you can bear but you endure as you strip. You grab lube and a condom from your bag and force yourself not to touch him the way you want to, force yourself to be clinical, methodical with preparing him. You coat your fingers and ease one into him, his eyes drift closed; he makes a soft noise in the back of his throat. You feel a shiver down your spine, the need to touch him, to stroke him, to kiss him and how you long to kiss him, fills you but habit, _rules_, stop you. You stretch him open carefully, taking full advantage of the fact you can see his face. Even if his eyes are closed, you can see the twitch of his eyebrows, the curve of his lips, even the flare of his nostrils as he breathes, you document them; store it in your memory for when all you get is his back or worse, when you'll have nothing because eventually he's going to move on. Once the condom is on, you enter him in one long slow stroke. From behind, this is where you would rest your forehead against his shoulder blades and wait for him to relax, before you would pepper his face with soft kisses but now you aren't sure what to do. You hover over him, balls against his ass, your torso supported by your forearms and wait. You stare at his face, his eyes still closed; you can't help but wonder if he's picturing someone else over him, if your image is being overlaid with another. You stroke his hair carefully, his eyes open slowly and meet yours, you pull out from him slightly and rock forward, he tilts his head back, gasping softly. He doesn't break the gaze between you, his eyes stay fixed on your own. Slowly, so very slowly you try to make _love_ to him, gently moving in and out of his body, aching to press your lips to his but not, rule seven burning in the back of your mind. He might let your stroke his hair, take some liberties and stroke his skin but you're certain he'd turn away from a kiss.

"_Faster_." His voice comes as a surprise, he's always so quiet during these number and place meetings, you shake your head at him and he squeezes your bicep. "_Faster_, I need it." You shake your head again.

"You're hurt, Punk." You brush your nose against his and he frowns slightly, shifting, wraps one leg around you, tries to move the other but swears loudly, you freeze, his eyes are screwed tightly shut with pain. You move to pull out of him, he's too hurt for this but the leg around your waist won't let you.

"You win, slow is fine, slow is good." He manages, his voice clouded with pain. You stroke his hair and sigh.

"You're hurt, Punk. We sho-"

"Don't, I." He sighs softly and opens his eyes, meeting yours once more, holding your gaze, beneath the pain in them you're certain you see a glimmer of how he used to look at you. You nod and move again, slow and careful, gently making love to him, staring into his eyes and aching to kiss him but resisting, the reasons for it dwindling with every thrust, until he comes, head back, throat exposed. You come shortly after him, your head bowed. You pull out of him and he moves to lie on his side, once you've taken the condom off, disposed of it in the trash, you come back to the bed and roll him onto his back.

"You'll make it worse." You lie with your back to him, feeling his warmth behind you, listening to him breathing; you feign sleep wondering how long he'll lie there in pain. After maybe an hour, you feel his fingers, softly gently stroking the skin of your shoulder.

"_Scott?" _His voice is a tiny whisper; you're not sure what he's doing so you keep the charade of sleep up. He gently tugs on your shoulder, rolls you to your back and rests his head on your chest, catches your arm, pulls it over himself and presses a soft kiss to your skin, just over your heart. "_G'night Colt_."

You wake when he gets out of the bed, swearing softly, you listen to him rustle around the room, hear him curse with every other step and go to the bathroom, turning on the shower and then you fall back into a half-sleep, the door closing as he leaves jolts you out of it. You glance at your phone, six am, he stayed the night despite the rules, something akin to hope settles in your stomach but you staunchly squash it down. It meant nothing, he was asleep but when he woke you up it was because he had to squirm out of your arms, he slept with his head tucked under your chin, he slept in your arms, he slept where he should be every night.

You were sure you brought thirty shirts with you to this match to sell. You always bring more than you should and you're always careful to be aware of just how much merch it is you have to sell so you can be certain of the profits. You count again, come up with twenty-nine again and can't quite explain why, maybe you lost one in the hotel, maybe you miscounted in the first place. It's not _that_ important but it is annoying, this is your livelihood, you need to keep track of these things.

You're absently surfing the Internet, Raw playing in the background, you want to see what they'll do with him seeing as he's more hurt than they'd first expected. Commentary, well he does love the sound of his own voice, even if he never says anything truly important and he does give good commentary, many hours you've spent watching matches with him, giving your own commentary on them. You glance at the screen and stare. That's where shirt thirty went. Your shirt on a WWE Raw broadcast, your shirt on him, you only hope he doesn't catch heat for this, that they've no idea what he's wearing or at least are placated by the fact he's wearing a sports coat. He's good out there, you think, listening to him reminds you painfully of watching matches with him; you can almost hear the pauses for where he'd be expecting you to say something or laugh. You almost want to text him your responses to his comments but you refrain, hold back because this is him working, not goofing off with you and really, he's talking to the _WWE Universe_, not one man in his apartment in Chicago.

If he gets heat for the shirt he doesn't mention it, doesn't mention that he wore your shirt in the first place. This situation hasn't changed, hasn't progressed, hasn't regressed, just stopped in some sort of limbo. It's clear to you something has to change, something, somewhere has to give, it's been months of this, it's already May and nothing is different really but you can feel something in the air, something is changing in him.

He's restless, texting you more often, calling more, spending more time with you as your _friend_. He mentions it casually, drops it into a conversation you were having about ROH, his contract is up soon, that he's considering his options. You aren't sure what he wants from you, aren't sure what he wants you to say so you nod at him, ask what he thinks he'll do. He shrugs rather than answer you and you let the matter drop. If it was something he wanted to talk to you about he would, he doesn't come to you for advice, he never has, he gets something else from you.

The next time you meet in a hotel, he seems different, wired, buzzing with energy. You almost expect him to kiss you the way he looks at you, something close to fire dancing in his eyes but instead he drags you to the shower and lets you fuck him against the tiles.

He's getting thinner, sleeker, more like the man you first fucked, you all nervous hands and awkward fumbling, so many years ago. You forget how long there has been this connection between you, how long sex has been a thread binding you together. You wonder if you'd never fucked him would things be different, if that first night when he first followed you to bed and lay beside you in the dark, lulled you to sleep with his breathing, only for you to wake with him on chest, if you'd thrown him off, called him on it, would things be better, would they be worse, would you be friends or would he be a distant memory for you. You don't suppose it matters really, if's and should have's are irrelevant, you only have have's and done's. Soon you think there something is going to happen, soon there will be another one of those moments in your life where you'll think back, ponder the if's and should have's. _Something_ is going to change soon, _something_ is going to happen, you just have no idea what.

* * *

_The end is incredibly close, two chapters left (we went into the bonus Japanese track). I hope you enjoyed it! As ever comments, questions, criticism, disapproving glares and reviews are ALWAYS welcomed._

**littleone1389**: I think this chapter might be a surprise one too... Light at the end of the tunnel is very much a yes. Punk is getting his act together and Colt is well, he's doing this. :3 My head still feels _very_ fuzzy so please excuse the horrific grammar! :D

**agd888**: Punk really does have such stroke-able hair... :3 I would so spend an afternoon petting him rather than my dog. (Sorry Cat, mummy loves you but _Punk!_)

**BadgerLynn**: I'm not sure I've been called a _genius_ before... I'm beyond flattered. ^_^ (I may change my name to Lanny now. :3) tumultuous is very much the word to use for this! (and a fabulous word that isn't used often enough!) I'm very glad to have you on board and look forward to your thoughts on this chapter! :D

**alizabethianrose**: Minimal damage is fine! :D Life kind of deserves a beating sometimes. ;) He should listen to Life sometimes but then other times Life is rather a knob... It's knowing when to listen and when to tell it to piss off that's the problem! :D Little bit of kissing and cuddling in here! A smidgen really but it's there! Pff, my muses are sticking to their map! Letting them have free reign would be counter-productive for me, they have an itinerary and they will bloody well stick (mostly) to it! LoL

**_Reviews motivated to write, dying of the cold is helping too _****_curiously_**, however, if you're interested in more please leave a review, even if it's just "Hey, that didn't suck", I'd be so far and beyond grateful and it'll give me a reason to stay awake for more than an hour at a time. Heck even if you thought it did suck tell me too, something is better than nothing after all. :D


	14. Worked Shoot

Punk chapter: 1 person PoV Warnings: Slash, Profanity.

* * *

Stupid.

You'll have to narrow that down, Sir Punk. Which part of that was the _stupid_ part?

All of it, should never have gone there, should never have stayed. We have rules for a _reason_.

Possibly shouldn't have engaged in kleptomania, either or at least left him some money for it. And yes, your _rules_, you've both been a little lax in those lately. It's rather sweet really, like a couple of idiot teenagers, we can this and this and this but not that because that will get us in trouble. Time for a re-think on this whole _number and a place_ approach, Sir Punk?

No. This works, it does. We, I, he, _before_ didn't work, look what happened, it fell apart.

Well it was kind of kicked in rather than falling apart, Sir Punk.

_Exactly_, I'm not-

You're not?

I'm not, I don't know. It broke, sometimes things break and there's nothing you can do to fix them.

So you move on?

No!

So you stay walking barefoot through the shards? Terribly melodramatic, Sir Punk.

No, that isn't fair; it's not fair to him.

Well life isn't fair. What you need to do is make a decision and you follow it through.

July seventeenth, it'll be made then.

Sir Punk, this is procrastination.

Da Vinci procrastinated and look what he did, besides this is considering, this isn't like choosing which shirt to wear.

Which shirt are you going to wear? Commentary's all very good and well but you probably shouldn't go out there looking homeless.

I bought a jacket.

And have left the tag on and really? You're the worst thief in the World, Sir Punk.

What?

Are you familiar with the concept of sending mixed signals?

He's my friend; I'm just giving him a rub.

Not the kind of rub he'd like, I'm sure.

"Sorry about the mess out there." Really, that was a fucking mess.

"Second night on the job, Punk, you did good."

"Thanks."

"Maybe the jacket does zap you of your powers."

"Ha, yeah, maybe, thanks Cole. Same time next week?"

You keep staring at your phone for a reason, Sir Punk?

I, no, it's nothing, doesn't matter.

"If Cornette tells me _funny doesn't equal money_ one more time, I am shoving a tennis racket up his ass." Calm down, it could be worse, at least you're working, at least you're wrestling somewhere you love.

"At least he thinks you're funny?"

"Which doesn't equal money, I swear, it's like the only thing he says to me."

"My contract is up in July."

"Huh?"

"My WWE contract, it expires in July."

"Really? It seems like yesterday you were signing it back in ROH." On the belt, when we were just starting out.

When you'd just reconciled from the first round of fucking miscommunication and procrastinating bullshit, Sir Punk.

"They want me to resign with them."

"Will you?" I don't know. I've still got plenty of time to decide, July seventeenth is far enough away.

It's getting closer and closer, Sir Punk. It's after Mania already.

"What would you do?"

That is cheating, Sir Punk. _You_ are supposed to be making this decision.

"I don't know. I'm not in the position to offer advice."

Ha, see even your idiot knows that you're trying to weasel out of making a decision.

_Room 106, The Stock Pot Inn. - sent 23:46_

"I almost didn't get your message." You look tired. "Was on my way back home from Mexico." _Mexico_.

Ah, Sir Punk, remember the last time he came back from Mexico looking tired?

Don't, just don't. I remember, okay.

"Come on, you stink. Fuck me in the shower and then sleep, you can stay the night. I got a double to myself. No one wants to share with me."

Separate beds, really Sir Punk?

Shut up, he won't spend the night _with_ me.

He did last time.

NO! I stayed the night and I shouldn't have. _Stupid_.

You did sleep very well that night though, Sir Punk, maybe sneak over in an hour or so, actually have a few hours sleep for a change, hmm?

_Room 543, Triet Inn. - sent 23:15._

"You've lost weight?" I was too fat, all that sitting behind the commentary desk.

Sir Punk that was last year, it's June, a lot of time has passed since then.

"I've been training more."

Finding new and exciting ways to avoid making decisions, Sir Punk.

"It looks good."

Aww, he thinks you're pretty, Sir Punk.

_Shut up._

"Just get on with it." Just fuck me and be quiet, I'm sick of listening to myself; I don't want to think anymore.

_"Mr Brooks?"_

"Yes?"

_"Mr McMahon would like you to close the show with a promo."_

"A promo? On what?

_"Your grievances."_

"Ha, really?"

_"He wants you to submit what you'll say but other than that, open mic."_

"Open mic? Email be okay for the script, right?"

_"Email will be fine, just get to the arena a little early so we can go over it. Thank you, Mr Brooks."_

"Of course, thanks."

Sir Punk, I am certain maniacal laughter is something that should be saved for comic book villains and not used by real people.

Fuck you! _Open Mic_! I can say anything I want, _anything_. What are they gonna do? Fire me? Fuck them; I'm leaving in three weeks.

You've decided? Well done, Mr Punk.

Maybe at least.

Really, Sir Punk, just when I thought we were making progress. _So_ what are you going to send them?

Exactly what I'm not going to say. Fuck them.

_Will you watch Raw tonight? - Sent 07:55_

* * *

_One and we are done here, people. I hope you enjoyed it! As ever comments, questions, criticism, disapproving glares and reviews are ALWAYS welcomed._

**littleone1389**: Behind them... ah yes, well it will be behind Punk if nothing else... Better is coming, I promise! It is coming! :D

**alizabethianrose**: Punk and rules... not such good friends really! LoL They have to be forced to stick to intinaries... no sticking no 7 Sins smut, that's how it works. Bribing the constructs in my head... fanfiction writing is such an odd hobby! LoL

**__****BadgerLynn**: It's easier to address Colt, he seems like he might listen, Punk would probably ignore you in favour of doing as he pleases. :D I think I'd have caved _long_ before the shirt but I am no where near as stubborn as either of these two. ;)

**_Reviews grant motivation to write, if you're interested in more please leave a review, even if it's just "Hey, that didn't suck", I'd be so far and beyond grateful. Heck even if you thought it did suck, tell me too, something is better than nothing after all. :D_**


	15. The Sky in the North Open to the Ground

_Warnings: 2nd Person Colt POV, Slash, Profanity._

* * *

_Will you watch Raw tonight? - CM Punk 07:55_

The text came as a bit of a surprise, one because it was early and two because it was on a Monday. He never texts you on a Monday, it's rare that an Indy promoter would host a show on a Monday in the same town as a WWE one so it would be unlikely, difficult or impossible for you to be there for him. Even now, you can't help but to accommodate his requests so you sit in your apartment and watch the show, it's a rather generic thing and then the end happens.

He sits on the ramp and starts to talk. You hear six years of frustration, of exhaustion, of working hurt, of annoyance, of grievances and _pain_. You're certain that anyone else listening to this will hear everything but the pain because they don't know him; they don't know how to read between the lines, to hear everything he says. You're half watching the screen, half-watching twitter but fully listening to him talk, hearing every word he doesn't say, he's hurt, he's tired, he's coming apart at the seams. He _needs_ you, not this sordid little thing; he needs you there, behind him, reassuring and strong, the tail of his comet.

"_I'm leaving with the WWE Championship on July seventeenth and hell, who knows; maybe I'll go defend it in New Japan Pro-Wrestling, maybe, I'll go back to Ring of Honor. Hey, Colt Cabana, how you doing?"_

You turn to the screen and stare. _How you doing?_ A very good question, certainly but _what_ is he doing is a better one. If this is a shoot and a terrified part of you is certain it _has _to be a shoot. Sure he's working within the parameters of kayfabe, even the idiots in the audience who don't know what New Japan or ROH are, it's clear from context, so maybe it's a work but the look on Cena's face, the way they cut the mic, he's gleefully tossing a pipe bomb on the WWE ever considering re-hiring him.

_TALK TO THE FUCKING IDIOT BEFORE HE GETS ON A PLANE - Ace 22:01_

The first thing that occurs to you is that Ace should really learn how to switch the caps lock off on his phone, the second is you need to find out where the hell the idiot is flying out from because Ace is right, you should talk to him, you really should so you call him, hoping he'll answer you.

"Where are you?"

_"The departures lounge, first class, it's-"_

"Where?"

_"Vegas, obviously. Why?"_

"Just fucking stay there."

_"Why? I have a plane to catch."_

"Don't move. You don't fucking move from that spot, I'm gonna be there soon so just fucking stay there."

You manage to make it to him far more quickly than you'd feared, you're not sure what you're going to do when you see him, if he's still there like you told him to be. If you're honest, you're torn between punching and kissing him.

He's standing in the middle of the arrivals hall, waiting for you it would seem, his cap pulled low over his eyes, his whole posture tense, even from a distance you can see he's practically vibrating with energy. When he spots you, he picks his beat-up carry-on bag up and slings it over his shoulder, the biggest, most ridiculous grin on his face you've ever seen, he looks fucking _jubilant_. You grab his wrist and drag him to the toilets, there's no way you're having this conversation in full public view. There's one man finishing up at the urinals, you keep a hold of Punk's wrist as you check the trio of stalls. The man is staring at you as if you're crazy, Punk cracks his knuckles and blows him a kiss; the guy flees. You lock the door behind him.

"What the fuck are you doing?" You ask him, he's still grinning, a mildly insane Cheshire cat smile.

"You know, for once I have absolutely no idea!" He laughs and hops up to sit on the counter by the sinks, swinging his feet like a child. If you didn't know him, you'd say he was drunk or high, he seems very much like he's taken something.

"Have you gone insane?" He laughs again, throws his head back and laughs loudly.

"No, no, got over that." You stare at him; the gleam in his eyes is positively manic.

"What the fuck are you doing then?" His smile gets even bigger.

"I _told_ you. I. Don't. Know."

"You can't just walk out, walk away not fr-"

"It's what I do, isn't it?" His manic smile takes a wry tilt. "Cut and run when things don't go my way." You hear your own vicious, bitter words echoed there, you feel your breath catch in your throat and your phone vibrate in your pocket, you've no doubt that's Ace calling to check up on you.

"Punk, if not for mine, then for the sake of Ace's sanity, what the hell are you doing?" He gets off the counter and stalks over to you, all sleek, slender and so very beautifully dangerous, the aura around him feels electric, you're not sure what this madness dancing through his mind is but you're sure want to find out. He grabs your shirt and pulls you close, his eyes burning into your own, his breath warm and scented with the damn gum he's always chewing. You stare at him dumbly; you're not sure what he's planning here. He suddenly wraps his arms around your neck and kisses you, kisses you fiercely, like you've not been kissed in far too long. Your arms without thought wrap around him, one about his waist pulling him close, the other knocking his damn cap off his head to make a mess of his hair. His hands move down your back, sink into your back pockets and pull your hips as close to his as he can, not even a whisper of air could pass between your bodies. You try to pour everything you have, everything you've been holding back for far too long, into this one kiss and it feels like he's doing the same, you can taste his love for you, feel his passion in his kiss. Eventually, he pulls back, Cheshire cat grin on his lips and a crazy glint in his eyes. He looks so horrifically beautiful and mildly insane. Your heart clenches in your chest at the sight of him and you lick your lips nervously but all he does is turn away from you and heads for the door, he unlocks it before turning back to smile at you, that kitten fluff soft smile, _your_ smile. Your heart feels like it's trying to climb out of your throat.

"I'm catching a plane."

You stare at the bathroom door as it swings closed. He kissed you, he smiled at you and he left you. He left you in a public restroom in an airport with his taste on in your mouth and the feeling of his body tingling in your fingertips. You know you have a ridiculous grin on your face when the cleaner comes in and looks at you as if you're crazy. You grab his cap from the floor and leave. You can feel something in your back pocket, where his hand was, you fish out of the pocket a left luggage token.

"I'm here to collect my bag?" You find yourself faced with an unimpressed looking middle-aged woman.

"Name?" She asks as you hand her the token, what name would he have used? His own, yours, something else entirely, you've no idea and stand staring at her blankly. "Your name, sir?"

"Colton, Scott Colton." The woman types at the computer and goes to get the bag for you. It's small, nondescriptly new looking, you wonder, again, what the hell he's doing. This whole situation has you convinced he's gone mad.

You take the bag to the departures lounge and sit on a bench, you're going to need to buy a ticket home but the contents of this little bag interest you too much to ignore them. The first thing you find is a booking reference and a flight number. You look at the board, it leaves in three hours and goes home to Chicago, he's mad but practical it would seem. The second item is a neatly folded fifty, you frown, why is he giving you money, you've not got much of your own but you've enough to get back home from the airport. The third item has you pausing, a key, a nondescript little key, you have a feeling you know what this little key opens, the number written on the key ring must be the pass-codes for his security system. The fourth and final thing is a letter, your name written in his curly scrawl on the front of the folded paper.

_**Scott, **_

_**I don't know what you want, I've no idea what **__**I want**__** if I'm honest but I do know **__**I can't do this anymore**__**. I can't, I just can't. I think we should talk but I won't lie, I don't want to. What I want is, I don't know, I have no idea what I want **__**BUT**__** it's not this, I can't take this anymore.**_

_**This is my house key, pretty obvious? I'll be back from Australia in a week, I don't remember the dates, should be on the calendar in the kitchen - LOOK!**_

_**Just **__**please!**__** Be there when I get back, we need, **__**I need**__** to talk to you, **__**I need you**__**.**_

_**Phil**_

You stare at the little note, he _needs_ to talk to you, he _needs_ you in general but he can't do this anymore so this is it, when he's back he'll give you his decision, if he's made one that is. He doesn't know what he's doing, he told you so in the bathroom, you hope this tour down under will give him time to work it out but then he's had so much time already and still has no idea what he wants. It might be that you'll have to decide for him.

You get a cab to his place from the airport, you want to know when he'll be back as soon as possible so you can prepare, you need to be ready for this, for whatever he decides or to make the decision yourself, in case he hasn't or can't.

His place is still too big by your estimations but the view remains incredible, holding your attention in a way the blandly tasteful decor can't. It doesn't feel like a home, it feels like a showroom, there's still that new house scent in the air.

The kitchen looks surprisingly well used, pinned to one wall is a large calendar, his messy, cursive scrawl all over it, July seventeenth ringed a dozen times in red. The first week of July marked out as when he'll be in Australia, he'll be gone a week, will be back soon and you already know you'll be there when he is but his flight information isn't written on the damn thing. It'll be in his phone where he can check it obsessively before he boards in case he's wrong or has managed to forget it. There's bound to be a print of it somewhere, that he'll have meant to take with him but forgot because he _always_ does. You smile at the memory of a thousand harried calls asking you if you remember what time his flight is and when it lands. The table in the living room proves fruitless and you rack your brain trying to think of where he used to leave the printouts, the bed, he'd always mean to pack it last in his carry-on and always forget it. You feel a little like a thief creeping through his place without him here but he did give you a key. Opening the bedroom door, you're struck by how much like the rest of the place it is, lacking in anything that is specifically him, anything that truly makes it obvious this is his place, that is until you look at the bed. The ugly blanket is lying on it in a crumpled mess, as if it had been tossed there in a hurry; it looks as horribly out place in this room as it did down stairs. He's going to an awful lot of trouble to keep something so very ugly around him so very often and you can't think why. You bought as a countermeasure to the cold of an apartment without heating, only it occurs to you as you finger the fabric you didn't. You bought it to take on a picnic; you made love outside of a bed for the first time on it halfway up a mountain. You didn't use it again until the heating broke and you'd sat huddled under it, alone, watching TV and missing him like hell because he was in developmental and you were on the hustle. For you it has memories of being cold and alone, for him, that summer day halfway up a mountain with his legs wrapped round your waist and your lips on his. It's no longer a mystery as to why he's clung to it; he was seeking comfort in happy memories of better times, of you and him together, before things fell apart. You sit on his bed and wrap the blanket around your shoulders, his scent clings to it, the urge to steal it back comes over you, petty and silly though it is, you know you'll take the blanket home with you, will give it back to him when he's home. You look around the room and your attention is caught by piece of paper on the table by the bed. Your assumption is that it must be the travel itinerary he forgot but it's not, not in the least.

_**RULES**_

_**RULE 1: I don't love you.**_

_**RULE 2: I don't fuck whores at home.**_

_**RULE 3: I'm not sharing a bed with a whore.**_

_**RULE 4: DON'T FUCKING TOUCH MY HAIR!**_

_**RULE 5: Let me enjoy my whore.**_

_**RULE 6: NOT A FUCKING CAT!**_

_**RULE 7: DON'T KISS WHORES!**_

_**RULE 8: YOU NEVER KNOW WHAT YOU MIGHT CATCH!**_

_**RULE 9: FUCK YOUR WHORE!**_

_**RULE 10:?**_

Every rule you'd agreed on interpreted though his eyes, every rule, you want to say skewed and tainted but you're not sure it is. Your rules were always that more subtle in their cruelty and he seems to have seen the cruelty you'd intended but his are so much more obvious in their intention of belittling you both, _whore_ the word is repeated so many times, this is how he feels, how you felt at times. He fucked up, yes but so did you, neither of you are innocent in this. He fucked someone else and you know him, know him better than to leave him to his own devices, to let him brood and dwell, you knew he was already facing an uphill battle with the WWE but you were too busy worrying about yourself so you compounded the problem. _Whore,_ the word glares up at you from the paper, creased, bent and folded, it's something he's carried with him, looked at so many times. You fish a pen out from your pocket and score each rule out, cover the page in vicious black scribbles. No matter what he comes back and tells you, this is finished, these _rules_ are done, you're not going to inflict them on you both anymore, you can't, even if he decides that all he wants is the _number and place_ arrangement, you'll handle it, you'll cope but you're not forcing him to endure these _rules_ anymore. There's one rule and one rule only, the rule he left blank save some question marks, _rule ten: Let me help you. _Alls you want to do is take care of him if he'll let you, at least.

Your eye is caught by the one other item on the table, something you were certain you'd lost it, accidently threw it away with the corpse of your sofa in the aftermath of your rage.

_**I love Colt**_

Your lemon, you rest your head on his pillow and realise that this would likely be the last thing he saw on the rare nights he got to sleep at home, a tiny reminder of the past. In your mind you can picture him wrapped up in the ugly blanket staring at that dried out lemon. You can't quite decide what would be going through that mind of his, sometimes he's a confusing mystery, would he be regretting the past, hoping he could leave it behind him or reminding himself that he loves you, hoping that you still love him, you've no idea.

You search the whole place but can't find anything that gives you the flight details. You send him a quick message but don't know if he'll get it in Australia. You know the day you need to be back here, it will have to be enough, you've no desire to sit in his house without him there, you feel far too much like an intruder.

Over the next few days your phone rings off the hook, mainstream media, dirtsheets all looking for your reactions to his promo, they ask if you know if it's a work, if it's a shoot, you answer them as honestly as you can, as far as you know, it's a shoot. His promo, you _think_ is a shoot, his note; you know it's a shoot. When he's back you're not letting him give half answers, you're going to sort this out, one way or another this calamity is being dealt with. You only hope that in the end he doesn't make you be without him. You can't and you won't let him dodge this, you've let him hide behind those awful rules and this horrid arrangement long enough, either you're together or you're not, no more of this wretched halfway bullshit.

_DID YOU TALK TO HIM? - Ace 10:36_

You honestly aren't sure how to reply to that message, beyond telling Ace that he's gone mad and of that, you're certain, that encounter in the airport toilets confirmed it. Your fingers still tingle with the memory of the feeling of his body, you can still taste him, feel that kiss, the love in it and whilst you want so much more of that, there wasn't much in the way of talking. In your pocket is the promise of talking though, his note hasn't left your side once since you receive it, he doesn't want to but he _needs_ to talk to you, he said it himself, resolution to this calamity _is_ coming.

_Kind of. - sent 10:49_

_THE FUCK IS THAT SUPPOSED TO MEAN? - Ace 10:57_

_We kind of talked but not really. - sent 11:01_

_My flight back gets in at 20:45, should be back after 23:00. Will you be there? - Punkers 11:02_

_I'll be there. I need you too, Phil. - sent 11:04_

_FUCKING FIX THIS MESS IT'S FUCKING RIDICULOUS! - Ace 11:05_

_I'll fix it when he's home, I promise. - sent 11:13_

_Does Ace shout at you in texts too? - Punkers 23:46_

* * *

_And we are done here, people. I hope you enjoyed it! As ever comments, questions, criticism, disapproving glares and reviews are ALWAYS welcomed. _

_If it seems like an odd place to end this, remember this is tale named after the impact crater that killed the dinosaurs and is soundtracked by an album about a possible sixth __extinction event, no place for happy endings but there is hope! __Part the Third will be out in the new year. :D_

_****__**BadgerLynn**:_ Well there was kissing and you were so right, the hey how you doing was pretty much the catalyst for the ending of this part. :D

**littleone1389**: See what I meant by behind Punk? LoL Colt is pretty setting this all straight and Punk, he's on a tour down under but part the third is intended to be happier than this has been, promise. :D

**alizabethianrose**: Life is a contradictory bitch, its just the way it is alas, some good points in amongst the being a total asshole bit such is life, I guess. ;)

_**agd888:**_I hope you enjoyed the last chapter! Next part should be along middle of February.

**_Many thanks to everyone who has reviewed, followed, faved or merely stayed along for the ride, you silent lot intrest me the most, I'd LOVE to hear what you thought, yes you silent person who's never reviewed before, as my students would say "Don't be shy!"_**

**__****_Please leave a review, even if it's just "Hey, that didn't suck", I'd be so far and beyond grateful. Heck even if you thought it did suck, tell me too, something is better than nothing after all. :D_**


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